Credit & Carnage

Chapter 3 Neon Hunger: Credit & Carnage

She woke to pressure. The weight of him wrapped around her like a vice. One thick arm slung across her ribs, anchoring her to the mattress, the heat of his bare chest pressed into her back like a second spine. Marcus. She didn't open her eyes right away--just lay there, breathing him in: leather and cedar and something sleep-warm and male. The memory came back in slow flashes: the bath, the tea, the skyline, his laugh, the way she'd curled into his side in his absurdly clean, absurdly empty apartment like a stray cat finally let in from the storm.

Now the morning light was slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows in long, warm beams, gilding the glass and chrome. The sheets were soft and cool where they weren't damp from skin. Her head was under his chin; her legs tangled with his. And he was holding her like he meant it--even in sleep.

Her fingers twitched against the cotton hem of the T-shirt she'd borrowed. His T-shirt. It smelled like detergent and him. It hung loose on her body, brushing the tops of her thighs. She didn't remember falling asleep, not really. Just drifting. Just giving up.

She shifted slightly, testing the grip of his arm, and he made a low sound--half sigh, half groan--and tugged her closer, one big hand spreading wide across her belly. Her breath hitched.

Skye tilted her head and looked at him. His face in sleep was disarmed, softer. That sharp jaw slack, lips slightly parted. He looked younger like this. Less dangerous. Still devastating.

But it wasn't his face that caught her attention.

Her eyes slid lower. The blanket had slipped down just enough to make it obvious--his body had no interest in sleeping in. His cock pressed up against her hip through soft, slick boxer briefs, thick and insistent. The kind of thing that shouldn't have looked so domestic. Dad-style underwear. Expensive fabric. And still--fuck.

She smirked.

It was too good to resist.

With the kind of careful mischief she'd mastered way back in high school, Skye wriggled downward, slow and deliberate, her hands skimming along his stomach under the hem of his shirt. She kissed the skin just above the waistband, felt his abs twitch under her mouth. Then she nudged the briefs down, inch by inch, until he sprang free.

God. Still as perfect as she remembered. Heavy, half-hard, already pulsing against her palm. Veins thick, tip flushed, that faint salty musk that hit her like a drug.

She ran her tongue up the underside, slow and languid. Felt him stir. Shift. She wrapped her lips around the tip and sucked him in, just the head, just enough to make his breath catch. He groaned.

"Skye..." It came out low and hoarse, barely awake.

She didn't stop. Just looked up at him, her mouth full of him, hair a mess, sunlight catching on her lashes. She dragged her tongue around the head, one hand stroking the base, slow and steady.

Marcus's eyes blinked open. His hand shot down, found her shoulder. "You--you're fucking something," he muttered, voice still gravelly.

She pulled off with a pop. "I'm sorry to wake you up, Daddy," she said in an evil little voice. "Someone down here was happy to see me, and so I wanted to show I'm happy to see them too!"

Then went right back down.

He cursed, hips jerking up just a little before he got control again. "Fucking hell, you little evil brat..."

"Can't stop me now," she chirped. "Some nasty old man drugged me, stripped me, took me to his lair and washed his fingerprints away--the criminal. And now he owes me breakfast!"

She let her mouth open wider, sinking down further this time, taking more of him in as her fingers curled around the base. She started to set a rhythm, slow and sinful, every inch she devoured mirrored by the curl of her tongue, the flutter of her lashes, the quiet, wet sounds that filled the polished silence of his apartment.

He gasped when she pulled back again, just enough to tease, letting her tongue play with the head. She looked up at him with that wicked sparkle in her eye, the morning light catching the sheen of her lips. "You really sleep like the dead," she said with mock sympathy. "I could've robbed you blind."

"You're robbing me now," he growled. "Of every last ounce of sanity."

She laughed around him. Literally. And then doubled down.

He grunted, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other gripping her shoulder like an anchor. She worked him with an almost cruel rhythm--slow enough to drive him crazy, letting that thick rope of a cock slide deeper, past her uvula, down her throat...

"Fuck, Skye--Jesus..."

She had to let up. Taking a deep breath, like a pearl diver, she swallowed him again, humming as she sucked, taking her time, dragging pleasure out of him like penance. It was finally in--all in, all the way in--with her lips against his shaven, thick ballsack. Oh god, it was fucking a bit much. She pulled back, spit-slick and wild-eyed, then sank back down with a moan of her own, one hand instinctively dipping beneath her borrowed shirt, fingers gently rubbing her own wetness.

The air now tasted like sweat and sex and warm linen. Sunshine morning. Chirping birds up high. And down, down, down we go. She had to stretch her mouth more, eyes watering, the corners of her lips shiny and flushed. He tried to hold back, but she knew his tells now--the way his hips bucked, the way he roughly cursed her, the way his fingers tightened around the mess of her morning hair. And here we go--he did it hard, and plenty, shuddering, his body locking up as she held him deep, holding her breath, letting him empty all his passion and relief down her roughened and abused throat.

She pushed away, breathing heavily and trying not to spoil the moment by ruining his bedsheets with vomit. Then, victorious, she tugged his underwear back up like it was the most innocent thing in the world and slithered back up to curl against his chest.

"I love to start the day with a protein shake," she said sweetly, lips brushing his neck. "Yours was yummy."

He laughed, still breathless. "I'm going to be feeding you more often, princess. Can't have my girl starving now, can I?"

She smiled against his skin, listening to his heart pounding.

Neither of them moved to get up.

He didn't say anything for a while after that. Just held her, chest rising and falling, the rhythm of it syncing with hers. She could feel the faint thump of his heart under her cheek, still racing from what she'd just done. Maybe from her, in general.

Then his fingers moved--lazy, warm strokes up and down her back, dragging the hem of the T-shirt along her spine like he didn't want to stop touching her even if he didn't know why.

"Do you have plans, classes, work for today?" he asked, voice still low with sleep, threaded with something more dangerous.

Skye, who in fact was supposed to be in class right now, blinked. "Define plans. Like, with you?"

He chuckled softly. "I do need to be somewhere this afternoon. But if you can bear me for a few more hours, I want to spoil you a bit."

"Men buy me things when they want something. Or when they feel guilty. Same difference."

Marcus made a rough sound--almost a grunt. "Right. I guess I fall in column B."

"Depends," she murmured. "What are you guilty for?"

He paused, just for a beat too long. "You are too good of a girl sometimes, princess. I'm not sure where we're going with this, but I do want to show my appreciation for the journey."

That got her attention.

She shifted up onto her elbow, propped against him, staring at his face. That face that always looked like it belonged to someone who didn't lose sleep over anything. Even now, half-naked and sun-striped, he looked like trouble in a well-tailored shell.

"You can spoil me, like, a little bit," she said thoughtfully. "I do need a new pair of clean underwear."

She yawned and stretched, her slender, inked-with-snakes thigh brushing his limp, long snake. "Then you can rip it off all over again, you big bad wolf."

He smirked. "That's your idea of an apology?"

She gave him a look. Then sat up, pouting, his T-shirt riding high on her thighs. "You know what? Fine. Take me out on a shopping date. I demand lots and lots of shoes. Also, I'm starving."

"Good. Let me order the car."

The rental town car rolled smoothly down Broadway, windows tinted against the morning sun. She curled into the leather seat, legs tucked under her, the cotton of her trophy shirt covering the sharp angles of her body. Marcus sat beside her, relaxed, one arm draped along the back of the seat like he owned the city--and maybe her too.

They didn't talk much on the way downtown. Just the low hum of traffic, the soft beat of whatever ambient playlist he had synced to the car's speakers. Skye watched the storefronts pass by, her stomach a hollow knot of hunger and nerves.

The café he took her to sat on the corner of a tree-lined block in SoHo, half-hidden by ivy and gold-leaf signage. Inside, it was all worn wood, exposed brick, and antique mirrors. Soft jazz drifted in the air, the kind of place that made you feel like you'd stumbled into a movie. The staff moved like ghosts in white aprons and pressed shirts, quiet and practiced.

Skye slid into the booth across from him, the leather cool against the backs of her thighs. The scent of butter and coffee hit her like a sucker punch. She hadn't eaten anything solid since that damn ice cream cone yesterday by the river. Her body was running on tequila, drugs, and adrenaline.

Now it all came back in a rush--how empty she was. How badly she needed to fill the hollow.

"I could eat this table," she muttered, eyes scanning the menu like it might bite her back.

Marcus gave her a knowing look. "Order everything. You look half-starved."

She did.

Ricotta pancakes with lemon zest and powdered sugar. A poached egg on toast with fresh avocado. Crispy bacon curls. Cinnamon latte with enough cream to kill a cow. She ordered it all like a girl who didn't know when she'd eat again. He kept it simple--black coffee, scrambled eggs, anchovy butter toast.

The food came fast, the smells assaulting her. She moaned around the first forkful of pancake, eyes fluttering shut.

"Jesus," Marcus muttered, watching her like she was the one being served.

She opened one eye. "Sorry. That was involuntary."

"You should be," he said, biting into his toast, "this is a public place."

She grinned, licking syrup off her thumb. "I'll be quiet next time."

But she wasn't. Not really. Every bite was another small pleasure she couldn't quite suppress. She caught the waiter glancing their way once or twice--discreet, but not invisible. Skye shifted in her seat, suddenly too conscious of her artistic look--a homeless hobo girl being fed by a business tycoon.

Did he guess they were lovers? Or worse--did he think they were father and daughter?

The thought made her insides twist, but she said nothing, just drank more latte. She knew she should be in class right now. A Thursday morning. College lectures she was already behind on. Instead, she was eating sugar-drenched pancakes in a man's stolen shirt, bumping his Italian pants with her bare foot under the table.

Yup. She wasn't sorry. Not really.

Skye hit Fifth Avenue like it owed her something. Her hunger was gone, her mood syrup-slick and sun-drenched, and with Marcus trailing behind her like a patient devil, she turned retail into foreplay. She touched everything--scarves, bracelets, lingerie that looked like whispers. She tried on mirrored sunglasses and smirked at herself like a girl who hadn't cried on the bathroom floor two nights ago. In one store, she bought a red lace thong and made sure he saw it. In another, she let a saleswoman fasten leather kitten heels onto her feet while Marcus leaned against a marble column, arms crossed, watching like he was building new sins in his head.

"You're really going to let me max out your card for a pair of sheer socks with bows?" she teased, lifting one leg, admiring the absurd delicacy.

"If I say no, will that stop you?" he asked dryly.

She grinned. "Nope."

There was something deeply satisfying about making him wait. Watching him grow more silent, more still, the longer she lingered in changing rooms or got distracted by racks of silk bralettes she didn't need. She wasn't doing it to provoke him, not really--it just felt good to be wanted and unworried at the same time. That strange, heady combo. She slipped a velvet scrunchie onto her wrist and tossed a box of earrings into her pile. Gold hoops. Small, sharp things. Skye things.

By the time she strutted out of the last shop with two bags on each arm and a wicked tilt to her hips, her feet were aching and her mouth sticky with laughter. She twirled once on the sidewalk, sunglasses still on, pretending to pose for imaginary paparazzi. Marcus caught her mid-spin, one arm looped around her waist, pulling her against him like she was breakable and his all at once.

"Alright, Monroe," he murmured against her cheek. "I think you've tortured me enough. There's one more place I want to take you."

She blinked, breath catching. "More shopping?"

"Something like that," he said. "Come on. It's a boutique. Just around the corner."

The boutique was tucked into a side street like a secret too dangerous to advertise. No sign. No branding. Just a pane of smoked glass and a man in black who opened the door with a nod that said,

you don't belong here unless you're already part of the problem.

Skye stepped in first.

Her new Jimmy Choos clicked against marble--cool, pale, veined like old flesh. The air was cold, perfumed with cedar and quiet menace. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors shimmered under low lighting, and the racks were spaced so far apart it felt surgical. Every piece looked like it had been stolen off the back of a fallen angel.

The silence was expensive.

She paused at the threshold, eyes skimming the interior like a lit match before glancing over her shoulder at Marcus with a crooked little grin.

"And here I was worried you'd drag me somewhere boring."

He didn't smile--just tipped his chin toward a mannequin draped in something barely legal, barely there. Silk like sin. Leather like confession.

"Pick whatever makes you feel dangerous."

She did.

Like a thief in a museum, she prowled between the racks, fingers dancing over sheer mesh and raw-edged lace, crushed velvet that begged to be bruised. A slashed crimson slip. A blazer cut like a blade. A blouse that shimmered like spilled champagne and promised nothing but trouble. She didn't just shop--she curated an attack.

Boots. Heels. A pair of sunglasses so dark they looked like blackout curtains for your soul.

Marcus followed, not saying a word, but she could feel the weight of his stare--steady, possessive, indulgent. Like he was watching her spend his money and fuck his mind at the same time.

A saleswoman materialized like a breath of poison--sharp black bob, silk scarf knotted like a noose.

"Would you like a fitting room?"

Skye's arms were full of lust and textile. Her lips parted like a dare.

"Biggest one you've got."

The fitting room was a shrine. High ceilings, low lighting, a velvet bench in plum red that begged to be sinned on. The mirrors multiplied everything--her curves, his gaze, the heat blooming between them. The chandelier overhead flickered like it knew too much.

Skye dumped her haul across the bench and stripped off without ceremony, left in just a pair of sensible cotton panties and the faint sheen of anticipation. She didn't look at Marcus as she shimmied into the first piece--a structured leather mini-dress that zipped up the side, tight enough to press a gasp from her lungs, anorexic as they were. She stepped out in it like armor.

Marcus sat just outside, long legs spread, fingers steepled. Watching. Waiting. Smirking.

"Too safe," he said.

She rolled her eyes and vanished again behind the curtain.

Next came the sheer champagne blouse with wide-leg satin trousers, no bra. She stepped out slowly, nipples peeking through like tiny raisins. Did a slow spin.

"Better," he said. "You could get plenty of hard-ons in that."

"Oh, I plan to."

She tried on more--lace bodysuits, silk robes with slits to the hip, a dress made entirely of chainmail that jingled like dirty intentions. The sales assistant brought more at his request--draped things, buckled things, garments that whispered depravity just by hanging limp on velvet hangers.

"You want her in this one, or out of it?" the assistant asked at one point, holding up a violet Arabian-night-styled two-piece that looked more illusion than fabric.

Marcus didn't answer. Just looked at Skye. Let the silence stretch until she laughed and yanked it out of the girl's hand.

She tried that one on last. Didn't come out immediately. Instead, she sat on the velvet bench and peeled off her panties.

No announcement. Just folded them neatly and tucked them under the pile of discarded clothes.

Then she strode up and called out, lazy and dangerous:

"You done giving notes, or do you want the private show?"

Marcus stood slowly. Pushed the curtain aside. His gaze raked her from head to toe. She stood in the mirror's frame--in a guilty-concubine pose, all ready to be punished by her stern harem master. Gauze clinging to her like smoke, every inch of skin on display, thighs taut beneath garters clipped high. Her cunt slick, barely concealed by violet cloud and two upturned palms. Her long hair, twisted into twin ponytails, spread like platinum angel wings. Her smirk carved like a switchblade.

He said nothing. Just stepped in and pulled the curtain shut behind him.

She turned to face the mirror, hands on hips, waiting for him to pounce.

Instead, his voice came low. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Against the mirror."

Palms flat on the mirrored glass. Breath fogging it in small, nervous bursts. She arched a little. Offered herself.

The room thickened. Claustrophobic with lust. Marcus stepped in behind her, close but not touching. His reflection loomed--composed, jaw tight, eyes black with something cruel and hungry.

"Spread them," he said.

Skye hesitated. Just a beat. Enough to feel the ripple of power shift. This wasn't like the morning. This wasn't teasing.

She obeyed.

Waited for him to take.

But nothing. Not yet.

Then his fingers slid beneath the hem of her violet gauze. Knuckles brushed her thighs. Then higher. He parted her with quiet precision and went right in.

No warning. No gentleness.

Just the stretch. The slurpy sound of her body taking him in.

Marcus leaned in, breath against her ear.

"All wet already... What a horny slut you are..."

She gasped. Bit her bottom lip so hard it went red.

"You really thought I'd fall for that little seduction dance in a fitting room? Like some eager teenager?"

Then he drove his fingers deeper.

Skye moaned, forehead thudding against the mirror.

"What a nasty little shit... All wet just by presenting your cunt in a public space... Let's see what else you enjoy, shall we?!"

Two fingers turned to three. Then four. The burn was real, fast and mean. Her body fought it, then melted around it, clenching as he curled into the spot that made her see white.

"I knew it. You never got fucked for that week I let you enjoy yourself. Tell me, bitch--tell me--you missed this."

Skye nodded in frantic little jerks.

"Say it!"

She meowed, releasing tiny sounds, like a hungry kitten.

"Wanna cum, princess?"

She nodded again. Eyes red. Face twisted and grim.

"Then... say it."

"I am a nasty little shit, who was waiting for her hunk of a man to fuck her. I am so so horny for your fingers and dick. I want it so, ugh, I, ugh--"