He pulls back, then slams into me. Again and again. Each thrust harder, deeper, until the mats beneath us squeak with the impact. His rhythm builds fast, brutal, and relentless. The obscene slap of our bodies collides with the slick drag of him inside me, filling the hollow gym with the sound of us.
Pinned beneath him, gag muffling my cries, I arch and writhe, every nerve ending lit. His hand clamps my wrists tighter, and I strain in his grip, but the restraint only makes the heat coil tighter inside me. I can’t get away, I don’t want to. His cock stretches me perfectly, hitting that spot over and over until my vision sparks white, his body driving mine into the mat.
His breath is ragged in my ear, hot and harsh. “That’s it, baby,” he growls, voice shredded with need. “Take me. Take all of me.”
His free hand slides down, thumb circling my clit in ruthless rhythm with his thrusts. The dual assault wrecks me.
Pressure builds quickly, unbearable, my thighs shaking around him. I scream into the gag, high and muffled, my body arching as the orgasm slams into me. It’s violent, tearing through me in waves that leave me shaking apart under hisweight. My pussy clenches tight around his cock, milking him, and he groans deep in his chest, guttural and raw.
“Fuck, Rae—” he rasps, driving harder, chasing it. “So fucking tight, so perfect.”
His thrusts grow ragged, desperate—each one harder, rougher—until with a final, guttural growl, he sheathes himself fully inside me and comes completely undone. His body shudders violently, every muscle locked tight as he spills deep, his moan fractured and raw where it muffles against my shoulder.
For a heartbeat, for several, everything goes still. The only sound is the faint creak of the mats beneath us and the harsh drag of our breathing. His weight bears down heavily, grounding me, pressing me so close I can feel the wild thunder of his heart, each frantic beat syncing with mine. My lungs burn around the gag, each shallow breath scraping through me until at last he reaches up, grabs the damp shirt, and yanks it from my mouth. He tosses it aside carelessly.
I gulp down air greedily, each inhale shaky, like I’ve been underwater too long. My chest rises against his, trembling.
His lips brush my temple—soft, reverent, a stark contrast to the raw brutality from moments ago. “You okay?” he asks, voice rough, threaded with something gentler now.
I nod, my throat too tight for anything more. He kisses me once, slow and steady, then carefully pulls out, leaving me sore and trembling in the aftermath. His arms wrap around me instantly, pulling me tight against the heat of his sweat-slick chest. His palm strokes lazy circles into my back, steady and soothing, until my shivers start to ease.
“Good girl,” he mutters against my hair, his voice ragged but quiet. “So fucking good for me.”
We stay tangled on the mat longer than we should. The air is heavy, thick with sweat and the sharp musk of sex,clinging to my skin. The world outside these walls presses closer, reality reminding me how easily someone could walk in, how precarious this bubble we’ve built really is.
He moves first, his touch practical but tender. With a careful hand, he adjusts the strap of my bra back into place, then tugs my shorts up over my hips with a quick, practiced tug, his knuckles brushing against my thigh. There’s no rush in him, only care, as if making sure I feel put back together matters more than anything.
When we finally stand, my legs threaten to buckle beneath me, but his hand is there instantly, steadying me without a word. He bends, scoops up both of our shirts from the mat, slings them over his shoulder, then threads his fingers through mine. His grip is firm, warm, unshakable—leading me out of the heat and mess of the gym, still tethered to him.
TWENTY-FOUR
RAELYNN
After three murders,the university doesn’t feel like a place of learning anymore. On paper, it still wears its familiar skin—red brick warmed by the sun, stucco facades threaded with ivy—but the surface is a lie.
Under the heat and the greenery, everything has been hardened into something defensive and raw—a battlefield disguised as academia.
Security checkpoints choke the main entrances where students once streamed freely. Now, ID cards flash under suspicious eyes, and bags are thoroughly examined. The rhythm of campus life has slowed to a crawl—impatient lines stretching down sidewalks, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air full of shifting feet and muttered complaints. Uniformed officers scan each face with deliberate precision, their gazes sharp as glass.
Campus police stand in pairs at every corner, their hands resting on their belts, their eyes hard and sweeping as if they’re waiting for the killer to reveal himself in broad daylight. A few city cruisers sit parked along the main quad, their hoods catching the sun, lights off but presence heavy. The officersstationed near them don’t move, don’t blink, until you realize their eyes are tracking every motion with a predator’s patience.
It’s all meant to reassure, but it doesn’t.
The air feels stretched too thin, brittle with unease, and the silence between footsteps always feels a second away from snapping. Three murders are proof enough that promises of “increased security” don’t mean shit. Locks, buddy systems, ID checks, badges, flashing lights—it won’t stop a determined killer who has already picked their prey.
The entire atmosphere of campus has soured. The chatter that once layered the background—gossip about who hooked up at the last party, debates over football scores, the endless buzz about Greek life—has been stripped away. In its place is something sharp, jagged. Conversations are cut short when someone gets too close. Students move in packs now, shoulders brushing, eyes flicking toward every sound.
Even the bulletin boards look like they’ve been through triage. The neon flyers for rush week and improv nights, the profuse posters for film club and intramural sign-ups gone. In their place are black and white handbills stapled in neat rows—counseling hotlines, phone numbers for campus safety escorts, photocopied vigils with time, place, and an urging to “come together.” Someone has laminated a map of well-lit routes with arrows and the words “STAY SAFE” printed in block letters. Dorms now have printed lists taped to their doors: “If you witness something suspicious, call 911; report it to campus safety; do not approach.” Little prayer candles and hastily arranged bouquets lean against a corkboard like failed attempts to hold back the bleed.
I can still hear Emilio’s voice in my head as I push through it all, like a recording on repeat. He’d told me last night, while we lay in bed, what the detectives were saying, in a voice that tried to stay calm but didn’t quite manage it.
“Forensically, what CSU can link is the wound pattern,” he’d said, hands steepled together as if he were holding the blood itself. “They’re seeing the same thread through all three scenes: same blade type—long, serrated; same stroke depth and angle; same right-to-left trajectory, which suggests a right-handed attacker using a downward, oblique motion. Defensive wounds on the victims’ forearms show similar parry patterns. It’s—” he paused, thumb tracing an invisible line in the air “—consistent enough that the detectives believe the same person committed all three.”
And enough to convince the media that a new serial killer has started stalking the streets. A serial killer they have tastelessly named Ripper Incarnate.
The phrase is a notch in the hum under my skin as I move across the quad. It feels like a mockery—a Victorian nightmare stitched onto our modern walkways—a monster named before anyone’s been brought to justice. The name spreads through the feeds, the group chats, and the water-cooler gossip with all the speed of a flame on dry grass. It makes people look at strangers like they might be a costume and a devil at once.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and weave into the slow-moving crowd toward the Koffler Building. The early sun cuts across the quad, white-hot, turning the glass walls of the science buildings into blinding mirrors. Heat presses down, dry and sharp, carrying with it the faint tang of asphalt already baking. My boots crunch against stray gravel scattered along the walkway. Each step echoes too loudly in the taut hush; a rhythm that keeps time with the small, repetitive questions flitting through the crowd.
