by Stella Noir
He looks so different, so… happy.
I feel oddly flattered just by the way he is smiling when we leave the restaurant together. He has his arm wrapped around me, pulling me close as we step outside.
“How are you feeling?” he asks once we find ourselves sitting next to each other in the cab.
“Great. Sober,” I lie, even though my head is spinning. We spent a long time in the restaurant, and even ordered desert to go along with the second bottle of wine. Still, I cannot remember the last time I had an entire bottle of wine, even when the time I drank it spanned the entire evening.
He laughs, shaking his head with disbelief.
“You might not be willing to admit it, but I am,” he says. “I won’t deny that I am feeling quite dizzy.”
“Of course you are,” I say, winking at him. “Newbie.”
He reaches over and pinches my right thigh.
“You are going to pay for that, young girl.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mars
Sex didn’t do it. Putting on my charm didn’t do it.
Maybe intoxication will. She was tipsy when we met at that fundraiser event, but since then she never had more than one or two drinks in my presence. Back then I was just a mere stranger to her, a guy she approached, because she had a deal with her friend.
When she suggested we have more than a few drinks together, I mainly agreed because I didn’t want to lose face, and I didn’t want her to get suspicious. It was bad enough that she noticed at all. I don’t want her to think anything weird of me, anything unusual. She shouldn’t think that there is anything wrong with me.
I knew it was risky, but I cared less with every glass. Not only did I worry less, I also came up with another good reason for our drinking.
I am her date now, a man she trusts to a certain degree, maybe she would even call me her boyfriend. She may confide in me now, if she is under the influence of that liquid poison that has the power to cause people to lose their inhibitions. It is just another chance for me to see if she really doesn’t know who I am.
She is staggering next to me when we enter my place. I can tell that she is still trying to hide how drunk she really is, but it doesn’t go by me, not even for a second. I have spent enough time among drunk people to see the signs and assess their degree of intoxication.
“You still haven’t furnished!” She exclaims when we walk into my living room.
She turns around to me, her dress swirling around her slim frame. I want to rip it from her seductive body and fuck her right against the wall of my unfurnished living room, but with the way I am feeling I couldn’t be sure not to pass out right after.
Fucking alcohol. My head is spinning a lot more than I am comfortable with. She is the one who’s supposed to lose control, not me, goddammit!
“Work,” I say as I approach her to get at least a little taste of her colorful lips. She looks up at me through fogged eyes. The same eyes that saw me finishing my last job on that rooftop. They have lost their depth now that she is under the influence of way too much wine.
All of a sudden, her ignorance infuriates me.
How can she not know? How can she not see who I am? I have seen and fucked her long enough to know that she is anything but stupid. She is so aware, so observant and smart—how can this go by her?
“What is it?” She asks, her voice quivering as I take her face between my hands, lifting her chin so that she is looking directly at me. I lean in closer, until our noses almost touch and I can feel her poisoned breath on my face.
Her cheeks are flushed and her breath is unsteady, causing her delicious chest to heave erratically. She stares up at me through wide open eyes, but still, there is no fright, just drunken confusion.
“Mars…,” she whispers, before she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, silently asking for a kiss. A kiss that I won’t give her right now.
Instead, I let go of her face and retreat. She reacts just as I expected and opens her eyes, now looking at me quizzically.
She looks so innocent, so unaware—and I hate that look on her right now.
The atmosphere between us has changed drastically and she can feel it. While we were joking and teasing just a few minutes ago, there is now an unpleasant tension, created by me.
A lot of men become aggressive when they drink; maybe I am one of them. I need to be careful, because I don’t want to hurt her.
Fuck. I don’t want to hurt her. A few weeks ago, I was ready to kill her. Almost. I couldn’t do it then, and I’m damn sure I cannot do it now. All I want is to protect her from men like me, because I know they’re out there and she obviously doesn’t see danger even when it’s right in front of her.
But most of all, I want to be close to her. I want to be inside her, not only physically. I want to know what is going on in that bright head, behind those attentive eyes that have witnessed something horrible just a few weeks ago.
A weird part of me wants her to share this memory with me. To tell me what she thought that night when she saw me shooting a man. I want to know why she was on that rooftop to begin with, what she was doing in that neighborhood—and if she will ever be able to forget about the horrible incident she witnessed. I want to know if it haunts her, if she is having nightmares because of it, because of me. And I want to know if there is anything I can do to do make her forget about it, not only for my sake, but for hers as well.
It’s impossible that she has forgotten about it, unless she is suffering from a rare kind of memory loss due to a shock.
Is that what happened to her? Is that why she never went to the police or told anyone about it?
Of course, I cannot be sure about that last part, but I feel that it is safe to assume that she hasn’t even mentioned it in front of her close friend.
If I just knew…
“Tell me,” I say, my voice oddly low and sullen.
She tilts her head to the side in question. “Tell you what?”
I shake my head, more to myself than her. Of course, I cannot ask her. I wish it were that easy.
This uncertainty is killing me.
“Mars?”
Her questioning voice is following me as I turn around and head to the kitchen.
“We need water,” I declare.
She doesn’t reply anything but obediently waits next to me as I pour us each a glass of water. I hand one of them over to her and watch her as she finishes it in one gulp.
“Are you okay?” she asks, after placing the emptied glass on the kitchen counter. “You are acting so weird.”
“You win,” I say, deciding to change my strategy. She may not willingly open up to me in a way I need her to just because she is drunk, but there’s still one thing I haven’t tried yet: letting her in first. Just a little, of course. I’m not going to tell her anything she doesn’t need to know, anything that would not only put her in danger but make her run away on the spot.
“I win?” She asks with a cheeky smile on her face. It’s a pity that a beautiful girl like her would fall into the hands of a monster like me.
And she still has no idea. All she understands right is that she may have won a silly bet against me, a kind of game only teenagers would play.
“You are admitting your defeat?” she asks. “Feeling a little light headed?”
Her silly naivete is driving me mad, but I will give her this little victory. She will pay for it soon enough.
“A little practice may make the difference,” I admit. “But I’m not sure if you should be proud to be able to drink a grown man like me under the table.”
“And yet I am,” she says, winking at me.
She comes closer to me and places her hands on my hips, pulling me so close that my pelvis presses against her hips. She has never approached me like that, but always waited for me to make the first move.
“What do I get as a reward?” she wants to know, fluttering her eyelashes seductively.
I am fucking dizzy. Normally,
I would lift her up in a moment like this, grab her by the hips and let her wrap her legs around me while I carry her to the bedroom. But that damn wine has weakened me to a point where I know that it this is an impossible move for me right now. It is surprising enough that my cock is still attentive enough to react to her touch.
She notices it, too and starts caressing the growing bulge between my legs. Whatever plan I had to make her speak tonight has to wait—I need her. I need to fuck her silly before I can even think of anything else to do.
“I’m sure I can think of something,” I say while I unbuckle my belt.
Her eyes flicker with excitement, and she playfully protests when I place my hand at the back of her head to push her down on my knees.
Her instant willingness to please does enough for me to grow hard even before she pulls down my pants. She leans forward and starts licking the tip of my cock. Her touch is careful and reserved, aiming to tease me.
But that is not what I am after right now. I push her forward, enjoying the suffocating moans she lets out as I force my entire length inside of her mouth. She struggles and chokes, instinctively trying to push herself away from me, but I make sure to keep her in place.
She is such a good girl, too good. So naive and innocent, unable to see evil even when it is right in front of her.
I finally let her breathe, watching as she coughs and spits after I release her. She looks up at me with a smile that almost seems too naughty for the girl I know her to be.
I expect her to complain and to remind me that she is the one who won our little bet and now deserves a reward, but she says none of the like.
Instead, she licks her upper lip and whispers: “Thank you.”
Her words send a sizzling shiver through my body. How can she be so innocent and so fucking hot at the same time? That naughty little minx.
Her dark, unsuspecting eyes fixate mine, waiting for a reaction.
She doesn’t have to wait long.
I grab a fistful of her hair at the back of her head and force her to get back up on her feet. She struggles not to lose her balance, but I hardly give her time to cope before I lift her up and place her on the kitchen counter. My motions are clumsy, weakened by that goddamn poison she made me drink, but I manage to place her as I planned.
My hands travel beneath her dress, finding the waistband of her pantyhose. She helps me by lifting her sexy ass so that I can pull them down together with her panties in one move, ripping them in the process. The sound her naked butt cheeks make when they land back on the cold counter drives me crazy.
She is a good girl and eagerly spreads her legs for me while she looks up at me through drunken eyes, with her mouth slightly opened as she breathes heavily.
“What do you want?” I ask, as I stand in front of her, close, very close, rubbing my erection that is still wet with her saliva.
“Fuck me,” she breathes, hardly audible.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as if I was threatening her.
I take a step forward with one hand still on my cock while I use the other to touch her. She moans and throws her head back with desperate need when my fingertips reach her wet entrance. I part her lips with two fingers and use my thumb to caress her swollen clit.
“I didn’t hear you. Say it again,” I order.
Her reply is another moan. She moves her hips forward, yearning for more. Her lascivious motions excite me even more. It’s hard to hold back instead of ramming myself inside of her like a wild animal.
But I want her to say it. Loud and clear. I don’t only want to see how much she wants this, I want to hear it, too.
“Fuck me,” she pleads, this time louder. “Please, Mars. Fuck me.”
I can feel her wet cunt clenching around me, begging for my cock just as much as her words are. I cannot believe how turned on she is, just as I am. The air is filled with lust and need between us, joined by the danger that spices our relationship.
A danger still unknown to her.
She sighs with disappointment when I withdraw my fingers. But her eyes lighten with excitement when she sees that I am about to replace them with my throbbing girth. Normally, I would tease her with the tip before giving her all of it, and make her beg for more.
But not today.
She exhales audibly as she takes my entire length with one merciless shove. She is so ready for me, I glide inside her warm center with ease.
“Mars,” she breathes.
Her eyes are on me, obscured with desire, but for a moment they appear to shine with something else.
Understanding.
For a few seconds it seems as if she does know. As if she is aware that I am the man she saw that night. The killer. The man who went after her, who tried to kill her, too. The man she ran away from.
I am imagining things.
Of course she doesn’t know, and as soon as I can remind myself of that fact, the alleged glimmer of understanding disappears from her beautiful eyes.
Instead of losing myself in distracting figments, I start pounding her tight center. Her entire body is shaking and shivering, reacting to my motions in the most enticing way.
Soon, way too soon I can feel her muscles clenching around, as she rolls her eyes and her head falls back into her neck while she reaches her climax.
She is too beautiful, too fucking sexy. I have no choice but to follow her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nike
I watch in horror as he walks away from me.
Whistling.
It’s just a few notes, a very short, melancholic melody. A sweet song, actually.
A sweet song—if it weren’t for the memory that is attached to it.
Weeks have passed and I have put all my strength and effort into forgetting about that dreadful night. I have cast it aside like a bad dream, a nightmare that kept haunting me until I finally managed to lock it away. A big, heavy door is keeping that part of my mind sealed from everything else.
And now he has opened that door, giving way to a dreadful realization.
I am still sitting on the kitchen counter, with my bare behind touching the cold marble beneath. My legs are still shivering from the intense orgasm I just had a few moments ago and I am feeling dizzy.
He gave me a kiss and turned around, asking whether I want to join him in the shower before we go to bed—and then he walked away, whistling that melody.
I am actually amazed at myself for recognizing it immediately. After all, I have only heard it once, outside, on a rooftop, muffled by wind and from quite a distance.
But I am sure this is it.
For a brief moment he was whistling that same song the murderer sang that night on the rooftop.
It could be a coincidence, it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just a song that many people know and whistle when they are lost in thought. It could be nothing but a fluke, a cruel trick the universe is playing on me to taunt me.
Or it’s that damn alcohol. Am I imagining things? Am I this drunk, still?
No. It’s not a fluke and it’s not imagination. Something tells me that it’s not.
It is the same song, whistled by the same man.
The man who is walking away on shaky legs, with his beautiful back turned to me as he heads for the bathroom. The man who just fucked me, like he has many times before.
The man I was about to fall in love with.
He is not whistling anymore, as if he just realized his mistake.
If it even was a mistake.
He may not remember that he whistled the exact same song on that night when he killed a guy. He may not be aware of what he is doing.
Or he might be doing it on purpose.
He stops walking just before he reaches the door to the bathroom in the open hallway and turns around to me. His eyes meet mine and I desperately hope that he does not see the shock written all over my face.
For a few painful moments, he just looks at me with an unreadable expression before he asks: “Ar
e you coming?”
I nod. “Yes, I’ll be there in a minute. You… go ahead.”
He raises his eyebrows with confusion but turns around and disappears through the bathroom door.
I can hear my own heart beat pounding against the inside of my head.
This puts so many other things into place. It may have been a scary coincidence that I decided to approach him that night, but if he really is who I think he is, his weird behavior at our first meeting finally makes sense.
He thought I was playing a game, he got so intense and scary, because he thought I knew who he was. He thought I was going to confront him with what had happened just a few days prior to that encounter.
He wore a scarf over his face the night I witnessed him shoot that guy. If anything, I could have recognized him by his eyes, but it was too dark to even see what color they were. It was too dark to recognize anything particular about him, and everything went so fast.
It is one of many reasons why I never went to the police. I knew I couldn’t tell them anything useful, and I was afraid that all it would do was draw attention to myself.
What a twisted irony that he had to be at that fundraiser, looking like a fucking god. A god named Mars.
I always felt as if he knew something, as if there was a reason for his digging, his excessive interest in my thoughts right from the beginning.
He was trying to make me talk, to see whether I talk about this incident at all. That’s why he asked about my secrets so early on. It was unnatural, I should have known.
What if I had mentioned it? Would he have killed me right then and there?
Come to think of it, why hasn’t he killed me yet?
And what was with that talk about me getting inspiration for my own thriller novel? Is this what he was hinting at?
I have no answer to all those questions, but I decide that I’m not going to stick around to find out. I have to get out of here, and I have to be quick, because he is going to wonder where I am very soon.
I jump down from the kitchen counter and quickly fix my clothes, before I grab my little purse and head for the door as quickly as possible without making too much noise. My shoes are the only things that I will leave behind, because I wouldn’t be able to run in them anyway.
