Wicked Steps
Authors: Cory Cyr
Wicked Steps
by Cory Cyr
* * *
Wicked Steps Copyright © 2016 CORY CYR
Cover design by: Robin Harper 2016 © Wicked by Design
Front Cover Photograph: Maxime Belanger Photography
Cover Model: Olivier Perron
Back Cover/Photography: © One Dollar Photo Club
Edited by: Cassie McCown
Formatting: Sharon Kay of Amber Leaf Publishing
Copyright 2016 by Cory Cyr
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Contents:
Kieran
I needed to come.
White ribbons of release spilled as I caught my reflection in the mirror. I heard my powerful groan of relief echo off the walls of the compact bathroom.
I’d only been in the air for a few hours and somehow managed to find some fuck bunny to blow me. I stared into space briefly as my hand gripped tighter on her hair. I looked down just in time to see her pouty pink lips suck and her swallow with gusto. Her tongue magically licked in and out of the ring that hung from the head of my dick. Another groan left my throat as she grazed her teeth against the metal. She reminded me of a porn star licking her way through the jewelry at a Tiffany’s counter. She appeared enamored with my cock ring.
What was her name? Mandy, Candy? It didn’t matter. Yeah, she was hot enough to fuck, but having her on her knees… Well, that worked just as well, and I didn’t have to give anything in return. Just stand there and enjoy.
Not only was she worshipping my cock, but she was giving me time to calculate my plans. Sex had always been the best way for me to assess things in my life, kind of like multitasking. It was my version of brainstorming. To plot, consider, and determine everything. To dominate, always be in control. It’s what I enjoyed most.
I had wondered how I was going to occupy myself on this long and tedious flight. Paris to New York, I’d be in the air for at least eight hours. I hated being idle, and I tended to get easily bored. I’d brought my sketchpad, knowing it would help pass the time. But when the young woman with a lush set of tits sat behind me, my dick took notice, and I anticipated sex. It had been a while since I’d enjoyed the mile-high club. Then when she leaned forward and whispered oh-so-naughty words, even I had to laugh.
I could say I was shocked when she offered herself to me. But I’d be lying. What she proposed was a common occurrence. And who would I be if I denied her the honor of blowing me? The thought of having my cock in her mouth was definitely something I wanted to pursue.
I’d never had issues attracting women—or even men. But pussy was my calling. I was what they called a pretty boy. In true deception, I had angelic looks with the personality of the devil—or so I’d been described on many occasions. My face was perfection, my body built for stamina, my tattoos a reminder of where I’d been, and well, my piercings, a sexual preference. My eyes were hypnotic. Women gravitated toward them as if they’d been bewitched.
Prior to the age of ten, they gleamed with happiness and joy. As I grew older, they darkened, and I became another version of myself. I missed my youth. I wished I’d stayed that naive, sweet little boy. But knowledge and awareness had turned me into a man that was now bitter and hard. I no longer carried that light of elation in my eyes. It had burned out a long time ago when I realized my mother had been hurt and betrayed. That my entire family life was a sham. A lie.
At the age of twenty-four, my eyes now reflected something different. The last few years, they’d been referred to mostly by disgruntled lovers and ill-advised managers as
les yeux vert: couleur de l'enfer
. Green eyes, the color of hell. I had my father’s eyes. And if anyone had been evil personified, it had been him. Thank God, the bastard was dead. I supposed I should feel melancholy out of respect. But I hated him. Karma had finally caught up to him, but it had taken ten long years to find justice.
He’d destroyed my mother and shattered our family. True, I hadn’t considered him a father since I was a teenager. I’d often heard them quarrelling, and I’d witnessed small bruises on her repeatedly. I’d been oblivious then but finally became old enough to understand. I’d always believed their arguments were because of me. That somehow my behavior had brought on their constant fighting.
I wasn’t the typical problem child. I never did drugs, and I excelled in school. But I loved to tag. I wanted my artistic handiwork on every street corner, empty lot, and building I could find. I cost my father thousands of dollars in property damage. He wasn’t happy about my life’s ambition, and he took it out on my mother. If I’d known, I would have tried to save her.
The truth was the son of a bitch had been cheating on her for years. Ten years ago, he sought to marry his latest whore. But he wanted to keep his fortune. By law, my mother was owed half. That would have made barely a dent in his income. He would have still been one of the wealthiest men in the United States. But my mother and I meant nothing to him. We were just two people sucking up resources he didn’t want to part with. I begged her to stay and fight.
Even though I was only fourteen, I wanted him to pay. My mother was due. She’d spent twenty years with this man. She’d stayed for me. Finally, she signed the divorce decree, and one night we vanished. As of that moment, I had no father, only “the man who knocked her up.” As far as I was concerned, he was dead to me.
I never desired to become him. It was my goal at that tender age to become a better man and a great artist. Unfortunately, I only succeeded at the latter. I carried too much bitterness and contempt. My hatred became as natural as breathing.
The move had been traumatic. My mother and I abandoned all we knew in America and found solace in Paris. She spoke the language. I didn’t. But I didn’t care. Paris was just a pit stop for me until I was of age. It was a nightmare leaving everything behind. We had to live a meager lifestyle. It was quite an adjustment after having endless means to money, vacationing all over the world, having several homes, and personnel taking care of all of your needs. My mother never desired “her share.” The only thing she cared about and took from that marriage was me.
By staying under the radar, she made sure he never found us. He didn’t care. We were of no importance to him. He never looked for us. His wife of twenty years and his only child were expendable.
The only real pleasure I could hope for was he’d died a painful, torturous death. I prayed nightly that he was residing in hell, where the cunt that helped him devastate my family would join him very soon. I was finally going to get my revenge.
I knew my mother wouldn’t want this. But she was dead. She didn’t get a vote. My family tree was now barren.
But at least I had Preston.
He’d worked for my father as his business attorney for years, as well as being a valued family friend. He’d always been there for me when I was young. I was always a part of his life, and he’d always made time for me. He validated my creative talents and encouraged my determination to be a great artist. He was the father I wished for, far better than the one I got. I never knew why he went out of his way to be there for me. But when I turned seventeen, my mother got sick, and all the reasons became clear.
He had loved her for years but kept his feelings suppressed out of respect for my father. When she was diagnosed with cervical cancer, he came running to Paris and stayed until the very end. He begged me to return to America because I wasn’t yet eighteen. He promised to shield me from my father, but there was no way I’d ever go back. Everything he’d done, including his contribution to my mother’s death, further stoked my hatred. If I ever saw him again, I’d go to prison for murder. So I chose to stay in France.
After my mother’s death, painting became my entire life. Even at my age, I was beginning to gain some notoriety. No longer content with graffiti, I elected to do shocking and salacious art. My work was labeled fetish erotism. But I kept who I really was secret. Not allowing photographs or interviews added to the mystique.
My agent thought it was a good idea because of my age and the subject matter. But I told Preston the truth—that keeping my identity under wraps kept me cloaked from my father. Just because he hadn’t searched for me in the past didn’t mean I didn’t still view him as a threat. I’d worked my ass off to get this far, and I had no intention of him getting in my way. Besides, I had major plans for that man. Eventually, he would get his just desserts. And I intended to be the one serving that dish. So as my artwork became more prominent, I stayed obscured, only Preston and my agent privy to my actual identity.
I think Preston’s lifeline severed the moment my mother died. He walked away from my father’s employ and never looked back. We kept in touch for a few years. Then I cut all ties. He belonged to a part of my past I wanted desperately to forget. I yearned for those years to be behind me. I wanted them buried with my mother.
But now it was different because the old man was dead, too, and I knew Preston had gone back to work for him a few years ago. I couldn’t grasp the reasons he wished to be employed yet again by that bastard. But having him in control of the old man’s will became an integral part of my plan. With him in charge, I now held the reins to the fucking kingdom once again. I fully planned to be the goddamn crown prince.
There was much to do. It was time to reveal who I really was and exactly what I had in store for his widow.
Let’s just say, Mrs. Wick, you are in for quite a revelation, because your stepson is coming home and it’s not going to be a cordial family reunion.