Page 26 of Illusionist
It's not gentle. Not tentative. All hungry mouths and desperate hands, and she melts into him like candle wax under a flame.
I should leave. Should give them privacy, head back to my car, pretend I never saw this.
Instead, I unzip my pants.
My cock springs free, already slick with precum. I wrap my hand around myself, biting back a groan at the contact. On stage, watching them perform together, I was hard enough to hammer nails. Now, seeing them actually touch…
Silas lifts her onto the vanity, and makeup scatters to the floor. His hands frame her face like she's precious, as if he might break her if he's not careful.
But there's nothing careful about the way she tears at his belt.
I stroke myself slowly, watching, waiting. When he pushes her skirt up her thighs, I imagine what he's seeing—smooth skin, probably damp, lace underwear that he rips away without a second thought.
The sound she makes when he enters her travels straight to my cock. Pure need, desperate and raw. I pump my fist faster, precum easing the slide.
He fucks her against that vanity like he's claiming territory. Like he's marking her as his. Each thrust rocks her back against the mirror. Her mouth hangs open, eyes wild, completely undone.
My own breathing turns ragged. The smart part of my brain knows this is wrong, knows I'm violating their privacy in the worst way. But I can't stop watching, can't stop imagining what it would feel like to be there, not just with her but… withthem.
The thought should horrify me. I've been straight my entire life—military, Secret Service, FBI. Never once looked at another man and felt anything but professional assessment.
But watching Silas move inside her, seeing his power, the way he commands her pleasure… Ah, fuck. What's wrong with me?
Her first orgasm hits like a bomb blast. She screams his name, back arching off the mirror, and I nearly lose it right there. The sound goes straight through me, raw and honest and so fucking beautiful I have to bite my lip to keep quiet.
But he doesn't stop. If anything, her climax spurs him on, and I watch him brutally work her toward another peak.
When she comes the second time, she sobs. Actually sobs with the intensity of it, and the sound drives me wild.
Silas follows her over with a roar, and his release triggers my own—I come all over my hand and the side of the dressing room, biting down on my knuckle to muffle the sound.
For a moment that stretches like hours, I can't move. Can barely breathe. My heart hammers so hard I'm surprised it doesn't give me away.
What the fuck just happened to me?
I've never—not once—come that hard from just my hand. Never lost control so completely that I forgot where I was, what I was supposed to be doing.
Never wondered what it would be like to be touched by another man.
The thought sends another pulse of heat through my spent cock, and shame floods my system like poison. I'm a federal agent. I'm supposed to be investigating these people, not fantasizing about joining their twisted games.
Through the window, I watch them separate. She slides down from the vanity on unsteady legs, and he helps her find her balance. There's a tenderness in the gesture that makes my chest ache.
They exchange a few words, then she gathers herself to leave. He calls her by name—Nova. When she reaches the door, she turns back to thank him, making his expression soften.
Then she's gone, slipping out into the night.
Silas stays behind, staring at the door like he can will her back through it. Even from here, I can see the hunger still burning in his eyes. I wonder if that was the first time they had sex or if he's just always hungry for more. I can't say I blame him.
Mind reeling, I tuck my cock back into my pants with shaking hands, then ease away from the window, heading back toward the parking lot. My legs feel unsteady, like I've been drinking instead of watching two people fuck like their lives depended on it.
The rental car feels like a sanctuary when I finally reach it. I sit behind the wheel for long minutes, staring at the carnival lights through the windshield. My pants are damp with evidence of what I did, and the smell of sex and shame fills the small space.
I turn the key, and the engine rumbles to life. The drive back to the motel passes in a blur as my mind keeps replaying what I witnessed—Nova's face contorted in pleasure, the way she said his name like a prayer, the sound she made when he claimed her.
Watching them made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
I park outside my room and sit in silence, hands gripping the steering wheel. The logical part of my brain sifts through what I learned: Vale and Crowley are definitely running the show, there's obvious chemistry between the illusionist and the escape artist, and the entire operation has the feel of family rather than business.
