The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

3. Nora

Nora

I measure my life by the space between kisses

H is voice is striking and contradictory, like a sensual antithesis that makes me think of the slow slide of honey dribbling over gravel. Tilting my head back, and then back some more, I try to put a face to the seductive cadence of the question. A delicious wave of chills rattles through my body as my eyes land on his broad chest and the hint of tattoos peeking out over the collar of his white shirt.

We’re staring at each other, but I’m faltering, momentarily lost in the deepest pools of umber. Brown’s too shallow a description. His eyes feel magnetic, like staring into the deep waters of a still river shrouded in inky darkness. Like rich, freshly tilled soil, just after a summer rainstorm. All at once, I’m simultaneously intimidated and curious. Taking a step back, the intensity of his gaze rouses some long-forgotten survival instinct buried deep within me. There’s something hypnotically wicked about this man.

"Excuse me?" I breathe the words out.

"I asked if you meant what you said about the painting?” He gestures in the vague direction of the woman who’d just left.

And then, without a second thought, he steps into the alcove, coming to a stop next to me. I’m left staring into the now empty entrance; my brain, now completely scrambled by his presence and the way he almost commands the oxygen my lungs are now desperate for. My mouth opens, dragging in one shallow breath before spinning around. Facing the painting once again, considering it for a third time.

“I was more critical than I intended, but yes, I meant it.” My words sound too soft to my ears, like I’m trying to will this strange conversation to remain trapped between us. “What do you think of it?” I look over at him, watching as he pulls his full bottom lip between his teeth, seeming to really consider both the painting and my question.

He looks down at me for a moment before answering. "I'm not an eloquent critic like you, but I think it's interesting that it depicts the murder of a known gang leader. Judging by the title, the murderer is a rival gang leader. King, as he exists in the media, is fascinating, a ghost that feels almost like Port Manaus’ own boogeyman."

He’s patiently waiting for my reply when I glance up and catch his eyes devouring me. The soft lighting glows around us, highlighting the rich undertones in his deep brown skin, somehow magnifying his already intense stare. His presence is too intense. My eyes dart away from the enigmatic man towering over me. His attention leaves me feeling exposed and strangely vulnerable. One fleeting glance is all I can manage as I quietly reply, "King has worked hard to create that boogeyman image, but he is just a man. And all men can be brought to their knees."

With deliberate slowness, he leans closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine, murmuring, "Be careful sharing opinions like that in places like this."

It isn’t threatening, though it unsettles me all the same. Still, I ask, "What do you know about places like this?"

He’s so close, and with a mind of their own, my eyes drift closed as a whisper of breath dusts my cheek. It’s intimate and alluring. As the scent of his cologne suffocates all rational thoughts in my mind, I step back. Fleeing my house in search of excitement is one thing, but this... this is more than I bargained for.

Before I can put any distance between his body and mine, the lead-like weight of his hand drops on my shoulder, warm and heavy and not at all unpleasant.

“Have a drink with me?” The request is low, not quite a whisper, and not quite a request either. I’m not the most socially adept person, but even I can sense danger when it’s nearby. And every instinct inside me screams that he’s dangerous. But the fluttering in my stomach murmurs that his is a danger I want to know.

He doesn’t wait for my answer.

Frozen in place, I watch as he takes casual, unhurried steps down the staircase. Halfway down, he stops and turns to look up at me. A slight quirk dances along his thick brow; the silent question of whether I’ll follow.

It takes only a second to decide. This is why I took a chance tonight—to feel something. To feel anything . If this is me, living in the moment, then I have to acknowledge that in this moment, I want more; more wine, more butterflies dancing in my stomach, more time with whoever this man is. Because I forgot how good this feels. And this moment— tonight —is tomorrow’s chance to remember something good.

My f eet move, the cool press of the metal banister beneath my fingers an anchor. And I need an anchor. I need to be held in this moment, because he’s already at the bar. But instead of turning his back to me and ordering our drinks, he’s facing the staircase, his elbows propped up on the bar counter as he watches each of my careful steps toward him.

How do I look to him? I can’t stop myself from wondering. Does my body move in an appealing way? The intense heat in his gaze says yes. I cringe as all the feminism in my soul shrivels up and dies. Is this me , craving and basking in the male gaze?

After what feels like an eternity of walking across scorching lava, I finally reach the bar. There’s music playing somewhere. It echoes off the walls, filling the vaulted space with soft, melodic sounds. It’s infectious without being disruptive.

I mumble my drink order to the bartender and reach into my purse. My hand barely grazes my wallet when my mystery man stops me and hands a bunch of bills over to the bartender.

We’re crammed into a tiny spot, sandwiched between two bar stools. Conversation surrounds us, laughter skipping through the air. I flash my drinking partner a smile; a rare one that reaches my eyes.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Nora, you?"

"Nora," he repeats my name, like he’s testing the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. "Nice to meet you Nora, I'm Martin.” He grins. “Do you come here often?" I roll my eyes at the cliché pick up line before laughing.

"No, Martin. I don’t.”

His eyes hold mine for an impossibly long moment before saying, "I didn't think so."

Seiz ing the opportunity, I boldly return his gaze, taking all of him in. Memorizing each ridge of muscle, the powerful line of his jaw, the set and slope of his nose, the slight crook that tells me it’s been broken more times than a nose should’ve been. I take it all and hoard it in the deep corner of my mind where my happy things live.

His hair’s cropped short, more faded on the sides than the top, like a military cut. His skin is dark, but in a way that speaks to a mixed heritage—like mine. His pants, navy blue suit bottoms, and the crisp white shirt he wore would’ve looked formal on most men. But on him, it’s alluring, like a trap designed to pull me in. Everything about him is magnetic.

My eyes drift to his forearms, the rolled-up sleeves exposing thick ripples of muscle. The raised veins short circuit my brain. His arms and fingers are covered in tattoos. More than I can count. My mind wanders to a hopeful future where he’s spread beneath me, a future where I get to lazily count and document each little drawing inked into his skin.

Lingering on the curve of his neck, my gaze locks on the tattooed black snake peeking out over his collar, angry and terrifying. I pull my hand into a tight fist to stop myself from reaching out and touching it.

The bartender arrives with our drinks. Martin circles his finger over the rim of his glass, the movement innocent, but something burns inside me as I follow the slow crawl of that single finger along the round glass lip. “Well, I already know you don't like the art. What else made you come out tonight?” he asks.

“Cabin fever.” I smile at him. “That, and it seemed like a good night for an adventure.” Secretly grimacing, I tuck away the knowledge that this is as adventurou s as my life’s been in over a year.

God, his mouth’s perfect. He’s saying something about cabin fever, but I’m lost again. Images of those lips running up my thighs race through my mind. How long has it been since a man has touched me?

I’m trying to calculate the time that lives between when I’d last been touched and now, when someone bumps into me. The sudden movement knocks me out of my thoughts and into Martin’s arms.

“Shit,” I mutter, stumbling forward, my drink sloshing over.

I turn around to find the culprit, but Martin’s arm has snaked around my waist to steady me. The room spins slightly as he draws me firmly against his chest, all thoughts of almost falling over, forgotten.

It’s the wine. The heady feeling of being caged in his thick arms.

Everything stops and narrows to this moment. My eyes flutter down; I’m mesmerized by the way my breasts are pressed into his chest. He squeezes my waist and I glance up. Heat burns through my body as his eyes cloud over with lust I know is mirrored in my own gaze.

Slowly, he lowers his head, that perfect mouth inching closer and closer to my lips.

I angle my head slightly upward, doing everything I can to ensure he knows I’m absolutely ready for it. His lips brush against mine at the same second his phone vibrates on the bar counter. Instantly, his attention is pulled away from me and to his phone. A deep sigh rumbles out of his chest as he snatches it up and examines the screen .

"I'm sorry, Nora, I have to take this. Don't leave. I'll be back in a few minutes. Okay?" His eyes travel over me one last time before he steps away to take his call.

Oh my actual God. I sag against the edge of the bar, gulping down the last of my drink. I came out for fun and adventure, but this is possibly too much of both. Bassey’s words from earlier haunt me, knowing that he watched me with a man on at least one occasion causes a sudden spike of paranoia in me. I look around the gallery; the crowd’s grown since I first walked in. I need to leave. Digging my phone out of my purse, I call a taxi.

The gallery’s in one of the shadier downtown areas, but I know the taxi will arrive quickly. Chewing my lip for exactly three seconds before slipping my purse over my shoulder, I weave through the crowd and out of the building.

The second I step outside, the cool night air brushes against my skin, with it the rush of rationality. Coming outside alone is stupid, but is it more or less stupid than making out with devastatingly sexy, quietly terrifying strangers… I can’t decide.

A shiver shakes my shoulders as a cold breeze lifts the hem of my dress. Late summer in Port Manaus is a fickle experience. While the days soar to high temperatures, our proximity to the Atlantic means the nights are always cool. A group of five or six homeless children jog past me, shouting obscenities to no one in particular. Other than them, the street’s eerily quiet.

Lights in the surrounding buildings are all off. The end of the working day passed hours ago. I pull my purse closer to my body, fully regretting my hasty retreat from the gallery. Unlocking my phone, I sigh as I watch my taxi’s arrival time jump from two minutes to seven. Fuck, I should just go back in.

Before I can act on that thought, large hands grip my hips, hauling me back against a hard chest . Panicked, my eyes dart down to the thick tattoo-covered fingers gently holding me. The panic wanes as heat once again burns from my core to my face as he lightly pushes his hips against the base of my spine.

Lowering his head until the light dusting of stubble on his jaw brushes against the side of my cheek, Martin whispers, "I thought you were waiting for me?"

Something between a gasp and a moan slips out of me as my entire body freezes. Even my lungs stop working, not daring to draw breath. His fingers creep forward and gently spread, fanning out over the soft curve of my stomach.

His hands move against my body like he wants to feel as much of me as possible. I let him, closing my eyes and leaning back into his chest, I let him touch me.

"Why weren’t you waiting for me, Nora?" Shivers crawl down my spine as his words rumble over me.

“My taxi’s almost here.” It’s not an answer.

The truth might send him running; months have passed since the last time a man kissed me. I can’t even remember his face. And God, if I’m forced to remember the last time a man fucked me? I’d be going back much further than a few months. I don’t want to tell him any of that. I don’t want to say that I measure my life by the space between kisses and the space between sex. I don’t want to say I’m not allowed to lust, to want. I’m not allowed excitement or adventure. And I’m certainly not allowed to look for those things in men like him.

I turn in his arms, stealing one last look at him before my taxi arrives. One last memory for tomorrow and all the tomorrows until the next version of Martin comes along.

His hand shoots up as he grips my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I was about to kiss you bef ore my phone rang, so you’re not going anywhere yet,” he murmurs.

Nodding a second before his lips capture mine, soft and gentle, but hungry. It’s brief, a whisper of a touch before he pulls back. Dark eyes watch me with intensity as he whispers, “I need to hear you say yes, Nora.”

My breath hitches in my throat, but I nod mutely, the words that should’ve formed easily, evaporating.

“Yes,” I murmur as my heart races loudly in my ears. I can barely hear the sounds of the city or the lively gallery crowd.

Every scrap of my attention is focused on Martin, on the slow dip of his head as he lowers his lips again, settling his soft, perfect mouth against mine. Our lips move together, each slide of his mirrored in the glide of my own, his pillowy soft mouth brushing against the sticky sweet gloss coating mine. His lips part and I moan against his mouth as his tongue sweeps in.

My hands drift, moving up along his hips, inch by inch until I’ve wrapped my arms around his waist. He groans at the contact and draws me closer, deeper into the kiss. Each stroke of his tongue is punctuated with the firm press of his cock against my stomach.

It’s intoxicating. He ’s intoxicating.

Leaning into him, into the kiss, into every place his body touches mine, every part of me burns. I burn with awareness as the hard ridges of his muscled body push into the soft curves of mine. I burn as his tongue licks against mine, each stroke more confident than the one before. I burn as my heart races, overwhelmed with lust so acute a part of me wonders if any kiss had ever felt so consuming.

The scratch of his stubble grazes the corner of my mouth as I push myself further into his arms. I ’m hoarding memories for later, but everything in the way he kisses me feels like maybe he’s just as desperate to savor this moment as I am. My hands move from his waist, up his back, desperately trying to pull him even closer, regardless of how impossible that is, with every inch of space between us already eliminated.

Somewhere in the background, a horn blares. I reluctantly untangle myself from his arms.

“My taxi.” I look over my shoulder at the white BMW waiting on the curb.

Wrapping his hand around mine, he tugs me toward the waiting car. Completely unbothered by the obvious erection he’s sporting, he opens the door and ushers me in. For a long moment, he stands there, hanging both in and outside of the taxi, like he’s trying to decide what to say, or maybe what to do, next.

Finally, he leans in and brushes his lips against mine one last time before whispering, “Goodnight, Nora.”

The door shuts with a soft click, and I sag against the cool leather seats, my entire body sighing. I try to steady the wild beats of my heart; try to calm the breaths sawing in and out of me; try and fail to squash the growing ache between my legs.

I use every single one of the thirty minutes in the taxi to gather the shreds of my sanity kissing Martin has flayed.

“Here is fine,” I tell the driver as he pulls up alongside a metal gate on the busy beachside street.

The main road runs parallel to the ocean. It’s not the road I live on, but he can’t take me there. If by some miracle no one’s realized I’m missing from inside t he house, the six members of Ricky’s security team stationed outside will be more than happy to sound the alarm if I pull up in a taxi.

Climbing out of the car, I search for the keys to the resident’s gate in my bag. Living on the face of a mountain comes with the perk of an incredible view. But the walk back up, the two hundred plus stone steps I’ll have to navigate, are firm points in the not-a-perk column.

Our house is all the way at the top. While I huff my way up the ancient concrete staircase, I consider that maybe this trek back is not worth the excitement of a night out. Panting out a frustrated breath, I reach the halfway mark and look at my phone. It’s one AM. The entire world is silent around me. I have no texts or missed calls, nobody waiting for me. I still can’t linger on the staircase, even though I want to.

Just to stop.

Just to catch my breath.

Just to take a tiny moment to think about that kiss.

I brush my fingers along the seam of my mouth. Hardly any time has passed since his lips were pressed against mine. I sigh, hating how empty my life feels. How getting a second of something I long for, something as simple as a kiss, doesn’t feel good anymore. It only reminds me of how these moments aren’t mine. Because even though I can steal them for a time, rip them out of life’s clutches, I can’t keep them.

Because I’ll always come back here.

And here, there’s no room for more.