by A. R. Torre
He releases a tight breath, staring at her image, his palms sweating as he allows his mind to wander. He stands abruptly, moving the mouse until the time comes into view: 11:02 p.m. He should go to the trailer. He wants to be on the property, hear the silence of the woods, and verify that her future screams will not be heard. He can go, twenty minutes to the trailer and twenty minutes back, stay just long enough to get his fill. She will never know. She will sleep through it all, just as she has before.
CHAPTER 37
JEREMY
THERE IS NO answer when Jeremy knocks at 1:55 p.m., the first time this has ever happened. He waits patiently, a small box in his hands. She must be in the bathroom. A minute passes, and he shifts impatiently before he knocks again.
At 1:57 he is in full-blown panic mode, his knocks increasing in frequency and volume, visions of her lying comatose on the floor filling his head. He puts his ear to the door, listening, and can swear he hears her crying out, needing help. What if there is someone else there? An abductor or burglar? Visions of her gagged and tied or held at knifepoint arrest him. The knob beckons, seeming to pulse at him like a neon sign. He stares at it, the world disappearing around him. Patting his body, he finds his box cutters, the only thing remotely close to a weapon he has, and looks again at the knob. It’s probably locked.
He reaches forward, grasps the round metal tightly, and twists. The knob turns easily in his hand and the door opens smoothly, leaving his hand and swinging inward. He gapes at the open door, caught by his action, not knowing what to do. Then he hears it—a definite moan of pain. He didn’t imagine it. He rushes forward through the open doorway and into her apartment, his box cutters out and ready to defend her: her knight in shining armor. This could be my chance.
He enters the room with a burst of adrenaline and stops just inside the doorway, his eyes moving everywhere at once, his skin prickling in the sudden chill of the room. This apartment is one giant open space, something he didn’t expect. His eyes flit quickly over a galley kitchen, one lone recliner, and a bedroom area—sparse and ordinary—a dark purple comforter and pillows tossed messily over a mattress and box spring on the floor. Novels are stacked everywhere: around the bed and alongside a stack of cardboard boxes that make his UPS storeroom look puny. Boxes. It is like looking at a timeline of their relationship, neat stacks of varying-size squares, white labels decorating them like erratic rectangular polka dots, easily a hundred boxes crammed into a giant hill of brown. He turns, looking to the left side of the apartment, and blinks, the strange sight foreign to his eyes.
Brightness. His eyes squint at the light, then adjust, his mind trying to understand the scene before him. It is like entering another dimension—a Barbie World Boogie Nights mash-up. The walls on this side are a pale shade of white, almost pink in tone, and covered with posters, framed photos, and a wall calendar—filled with notes, arrows, and hearts. The bed, a white four-poster queen, is covered in a pink bedspread, pink pillows, and ruffles. The bed frame matches a small bedside table, which holds a hot-pink lamp and notebook. It is as if a teenage girl has been given free rein at Bed Bath & Beyond and has gone wild with her mother’s credit card. The bedroom is illuminated in bright, blinding light coming from four giant stands, each holding professional-grade spotlights. Cords run around the room, thin Ethernet ones, large power strip ropes, and silver-mesh strands that seem to power and orchestrate the whole ensemble. There are computers, monitors, and cameras everywhere, all focused on the area, all on wheels or tracks, portable and easily maneuvered. She is in the center of the bed, and everything else suddenly disappears.
She kneels upright, her dark hair disheveled, her eyes locked with his. She is naked, her breasts heaving, pink nipples stiff, her pale skin flushed and glowing. Her brown eyes sharpen on his and flash with something he instantly recognizes as anger. Oh shit. He tries not to stare at her skin, her breasts, or the shaved mound between her thighs. He moves his mouth, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
He is here, inside my apartment. I study him openly, without the distortion of dirty glass. The width of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, tan skin, and strong features. Whatever warped vision of good looks I’ve seen through the peephole, this view is infinitely better.
He is here.
Confused, I recount my recent actions, realizing that my position on the pillows must have muffled my good ear. He probably knocked. And given his flushed face and panicked eyes, he thought something was wrong.
His eyes lock on me and I hold his gaze, my brain working overtime, fury creeping into my mind. He is here, in my space, invading my home, for what reason? Because he thinks I need saving?
I feel the rush of excitement, power ripping through every vein, muscle, and pore of my body. He is here, no door or barrier between us. I stand, my bare feet planted on the bed, my senses on high alert; I stare with hunger at my beautiful prey. It is as if God has delivered him, on a silver platter, and the proof of it all is grasped in his hand. Box cutters. My pussy clenches, instantly aching, a drop of my liquid collecting and running down my inner thigh, evidence of my excitement. This is my time.
He is shocked that she doesn’t move to cover herself, doesn’t have any shame in her nakedness. A change has come over her, and she straightens to her full height on the bed, her muscles tight, a strange smile on her lips. It is as if she is both furious and excited, all at the same time. Her eyes drop to his hand, to his “weapon,” and he instinctively drops it, realizing she is on the defense, probably thinking he is there to hurt her. He raises his arms. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t answer. I thought you were in danger. I’m sorry.” He ducks his head, pulling his reluctant eyes from her tight body, and takes a step sideways, toward the door. A sound, like a strangled but joyous battle cry, erupts from her mouth, and he freezes. She launches herself off the bed, her naked body extending, and lands on both feet. Her eyes are bright with pleasure, her mouth curved into what can only be described as a grin. Her eyes are locked on something, not him, and he follows her gaze to his box cutters, which lie on the ground at his feet. He crouches, picking them up, and flips the blade down, bringing his hand up to put them in his pocket. There is a blur of nudity, and her body collides with his, her hands greedy and reaching, her weight catching him off-balance. They fall together onto the floor, and her hand yanks the cutters from his. She fumbles with them briefly, then flips the blade out and, straddling his body, brings both hands together above her head, wild joy in her eyes. She brings her hands down together in one quick motion, the sharp point descending toward his neck.
CHAPTER 38
JEREMY
HIS HAND SHOOTS out in defense, his mind sluggish, confused by this clusterfuck of a situation. His strong palm catches the edge of the cutter, and the sharp blade slices his skin, the pain quickly bringing reality to the situation. Suddenly his mind is clear, and he backhands her. The blow knocks her sideways, and her hands splay out, the cutters still tight in one hand. She blinks, her eyes opening, and scrambles to her feet, launching at him again. His feet slip on the floor as he tries to stand, and she is on him, the blade swiping in perfect precision through the air as he tries to shove her away and get some traction, tries to get off the damn floor. The blade catches his shoulder, slicing the fabric and dipping into his skin, hot pain searing through him for a brief moment. His hand finds her arm and grips it tightly, holding her in place, her face close to his, panting, eyes intense and full of hatred.
I am furious, my anger mounting as I wrestle with the man. This isn’t supposed to be how it happens; it doesn’t fit the daydreams that I savor like manna from heaven. Last time it had been different. Last time had been easy—my victim distracted, caught in an unprotected moment. The thought suddenly occurs to me that I might suck at killing; maybe my first experience was only a deadly fluke. I have always envisioned myself as a killing machine, finely tuned in all things lethal. I have massively overestimated my abilities. The realization devastates
me, and in that one, weak moment of self-awareness, he flips me, straddling my body and throwing the box cutters, my prize, across the room.
Jeremy exhales. The weapon gone, they stare at each other, his body on top of hers, naked skin between his legs, her small breasts rising and falling with her panting breaths. She is beautiful, her eyes intelligent and large, her nose slightly imperfect, lips full and parted, high cheekbones framing her face. Dark hair surrounds her like a halo; she is exquisite in her madness. And that’s what he has to remember. Despite her breathtaking looks, she is trying to hurt him.
“Get the fuck off of me.” The voice is so familiar; he has cherished it for so long—soft and sweet—even when she is saying those words.
He shakes his head. “Not gonna happen.”
“I will scream bloody fucking murder if you don’t get up, and someone will come. You left the door wide open.”
He looks at the door, standing calmly open, the dim hall exposed, the damn box still sitting innocently outside the transom. He wonders how much time has passed since he tried the knob. One minute? Two? Five? It feels like a lifetime. He reaches forward, his weight pressing down harder on her body, and she squirms beneath him, pushing on his chest with weak arms, glaring at him with eyes of death. His fingers touch the door and he heaves; the door moves from the pressure, swinging softly and then clicking into place.
He grins down at her, pleased. “What exactly was your plan? To kill me?”
“You entered my home. I have the right to defend myself.”
“That wasn’t defense. That was fucking psychopath behavior. You were one step behind Hannibal Lecter with that shit.” He laughs nervously and fights a battle with his cock, willing it to soften. It ignores him, defiantly taking the other route. Her eyes flicker downward, and a slow smile crosses her face. Shit.
She moves slightly, her bare skin sliding against the rough cloth of his uniform, her eyes watching him. Then she arches, thrusting up against his cock, the pressure causing a groan to whisper from his lips, her eyes closing slightly as she bites her bottom lip.
A transformation, all in the course of thirty seconds. The wild, crazed look is gone, replaced with a sexual potency of the Jenna Jameson variety. She thrusts firmly beneath him, grinding her bare sex into him, driving his cock wild with need. Her eyes closed, head thrown back, small moans escaping—blissful, sweet sounds that pull him deeper into this insane rabbit hole. She reaches out, grabs his shirt, and tugs—softly, then harder when he doesn’t respond. His pants are stretched almost to the point of ripping, and he struggles to breathe normally, to act rationally. She opens her eyes slowly, lazily, and licks those perfect pink lips. “I need you so badly,” she whispers.
He almost does it. Almost hops off her perfect body, rips open the fly of his brown uniform, and drops back down on top of her, his cock posed at her wet opening, his hands ready to take her as his. But he waits. He watches her and tries to make sense of it all.
It is a performance that is certainly tempting, mind-blowing, three staggering times hotter than any fantasy he has ever had. But something is off, and as he watches her moan and convulse beneath him, he realizes the trap. It is staged, her deceit hidden behind one false layer of sensuality. He runs his hand lightly over the thin skin of her throat, at the sensitive place where her tendons intertwine in life-giving support. As much as he loves her flushed skin, her beautiful breasts, her moans of arousal, he wants to see behind the curtain of her performance even more. He wants to know what he is dealing with. He moves his hands closer and clenches them, squeezing tightly around her neck.
CHAPTER 39
HIS HARD-ON IS proof of it. Official proof that I suck at killing. But in the destroyed remains of my confidence, I see light. His weakness could be my opening, my body the weapon that would lead to his death. I move slightly underneath him, testing my hypothesis, having had so little experience with live, breathing men. But yes, it twitches, and my skin beneath his cock turns sensitive, my body betraying me. I use the rest of myself, those parts still loyal, and lift slightly, pressing my bare pelvis up against his stiffness, my thighs shaking slightly. I bite my bottom lip, stare into his eyes, and lift again, closing my eyes in false reverence when my skin rubs with his. It is almost laughably unfair; seduction is one thing I have fully mastered.
Except that something goes wrong. He is relaxing, responding, my own body having a tough time staying composed, my thoughts skipping away from murder and starting to think about frantic, rip-off-that-uniform, passionate sex. It is a battle raging in my mind, sex versus murder, and I am cataloging the different weapon possibilities within reach when he leans forward and chokes me.
Jeremy’s hands tighten around my throat, cutting off oxygen, causing panic to fill me. I stop grinding against him and snap my eyes to his, searching the depths of his green eyes for understanding. I see none there—only steady, indescribable strength. My instincts take over and I scream, a long, silent, angry movement in which my vocal cords desert me. He loosens his grip slightly, and I gasp for air in a desperate, shuddering inhalation. I bare my teeth, hissing at him, frustration burning through every pore of my being, my arousal taking a nosedive off this cliff of insanity. I turn on him, using my legs, arms, and latent strength to try to knock him off-balance, to push his maddening weight off of me. It is a useless exercise; my struggles only drain my energy as I resist iron muscle and dead weight. The man is surprisingly fit, and I finally give up, exhausted. I lie limp, staring stubbornly up at the ceiling, tears of frustration leaking out of the corners of my eyes. I have met opportunity and lost. It is an outcome I have never contemplated.
“Don’t you have a package to deliver?” I snap, refusing to meet his eyes, his face hovering above mine, the features irritating in their perfection.
He chuckles, the action causing his chest to move above mine—the pockets of his shirt to rub against the thin skin of my breasts. The friction against my nipples causes a reaction in me, an unexpected one, and I shift slightly, not wanting to lose my edge again, not wanting that heady rush of lust that just wiped clean all rational thought. I am suddenly too aware of everything: his strong arms beside my head, the smell of him, a combination of masculinity, sweat, and leather. It is the closest I have been to a human in three years and the closest I have ever been to a grown man.
“Will you please let me up?” She turns away from him and speaks quietly, in a controlled cadence he would have expected from a schoolteacher.
“Why?” He moves slightly, pulling away from her so he can concentrate on her face, the smooth, perfect lines of it, her pink, swollen lips contrasting delicate features, her slightly upturned nose making her appear younger, more vulnerable.
She turns, anger flashing in her eyes, betraying her innocence. Her eyes, a hazel blend of milk and dark chocolate hues, penetrate his very soul, and he loses a breath somewhere when they lock with his. “Why?” she grits out, her white teeth looking less dangerous when they aren’t bared at him. “Why should you, an invader in my home, get off and let me get dressed? Are you daft? You’re lucky if you don’t get hauled off to jail for this!”
“I’ll let you up just as soon as I understand what is going on.” She is gone as instantly as she had come, her head turning to the side, her eyes closing briefly, shuttering closed to conversation.
He wants to sit atop her forever, examine this strange, beautiful girl whom he has imagined for so long, but he resists. He moves his hand, turning her face to him, willing her eyes to open. But she ignores him, her eyes remaining closed, her face stiff. He moves his fingers, brushing her nude lips, trailing down her chin, neck, and collarbone. There is a slight hitch in her body beneath him, almost imperceptible, but he feels it and smiles. He spreads his fingers over her skin, feeling the life reenter her body, her nipples stiffening to full attention. Her eyes snap open when he speaks.
“If I get up, what are you going to do?”
She pauses, biting her lower lip, then sh
rugs, the motion causing her breasts to move. He closes his eyes involuntarily. “What exactly was your plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“The whole—Tarzan woman, whooping and jumping off the bed at me—thing you did. What was your goal in getting my box cutters?”
She laughs softly, her damn breasts heaving again, her stomach tightening beneath him. “It’s really, really sad that you don’t know what my intent was.”
“To kill me.” He tests the words on his tongue, doubting the validity of the statement.
Her eyes meet his, bright and intelligent, and she nods slowly. “Good. Smart boy.”
He ignores her mocking tone and grabs her wrists, one in each hand, feeling the tiny bones in them come to life as she fights the movement. He pushes them down on either side of her head, which causes her breasts to rise as if offered to him. He looks away, swearing at himself for his damn lack of control. “Why? Why kill me?” He fixes his eyes on her lips, then her hair, and finally on her open, unashamed eyes, trying to look anywhere but at her body. His breath comes hard, like the cock that continues to surge against his pants, clamoring for freedom.
Her pink lips curve as she stares up at him. “Why not?”
“Why not? That’s not a reason, that’s crazy…” His voice trails off on the last word, regretting the vocalization of his earlier thought. But she hears it, and her chin juts out, eyes blazing.
“I don’t really give a damn what you think about it. But I’d appreciate it if you took your fucking hands off me and left me alone.” She pushes up with her pelvis, attempting to buck him off, and the pressure against his dick snaps the only thread holding him together. He dives down, letting go of her wrists and grabbing her head instead, pressing his mouth hungrily to hers. She resists, her hand pushing against his hard chest. She opens her mouth to speak, and he takes advantage of the movement, dipping his tongue inside her mouth.
