So much blood.
The razorblade presses against the top of my ribcage, the blade a comforting pressure against the curve of my right breast. The sharp, warmed metal firm and threatening against the softness of my flesh. I feel better with it tucked inside the band of my bra. Even beneath my layers of clothing, it makes me feel safer.
Even if safety is nothing more than an illusion.
“What are you thinking about, Little Lamb?” Billy asks almost softly, as though not to frighten, like a spook in the dark, hiding inside the dense shadows.
So many things, Billy.
My fingers tighten in his automatically at my silence, our hands intertwined, woven like an intricate webbing that holds us together across the back seat.
He has already lain me across it, the air conditioned cooled iciness of leather biting at the warm, bare skin of my back, pricking goosebumps up across my flesh as his mouth worked its way down my neck. His big hands caressed my calves, smoothing up beneath the skirt of my dress, until he was burying his face between my thighs, sucking on my clit and making me see stars before punching his cock into me to fill me with his cum.
I can feel it there now, the sticky residue of our quick encounter. Something Billy did not shy away from even at thirty-thousand feet in the air.
Insatiable.
Both him and I.
Scarily, it feels as if he never left.
Another danger I’m facing.
Falling into him harder than Alice fell into Wonderland.
It’s disorientating, frightening, and something I am desperately clinging to.
He is all I’ve ever wanted.
Every part of my rotten insides is pulled towards his like coffin flies to a corpse.
Survival.
Maggots festering inside a sickly wound, oozing and bleeding, seeping fluid and shedding dead flesh.
That’s what our love is.
The closer we get to our final destination, such a short amount of time since he reappeared back in my life, there is a looming black veil of dread that dares to fall over me, threatening to tighten and suffocate.
Early evening rain bleeds down the windowpane I’m resting the side of my head against, tracking down the glass like tears on a sculpture. An angel, with a heart made of stone, wings frozen in time, concrete encasing them.
Trapped.
Weighted.
I already feel it.
Barbed wiring wrapping around the pumping organ in my chest.
Strangling, strangling, strangling.
Billy Blackwell is not a man to lie to, but I find myself doing it anyway.
“Nothing,” I reply, breath fogging the window, the AC on high inside the long town car we’re seated in the back of.
His scent floods my nostrils, earthy musk, sharp grapefruit, overwhelming me to the brink of insanity as it infects me.
I am violently ill for this man.
