She smells like coconut and vanilla, and it’s like the scent is rewiring my fucking brain.
I’m over her, hovering close and breathing her in. Her legs are parted, allowing me space between them.
My hand wraps around her throat, squeezing as her air chokes off, and she thrashes.
I typically wouldn’t be so bold, but she found two of my notes today. It’s the only time I’ve ever been so brazen. She drank two glasses of her special tea I laced tonight, so my pretty girl isn’t waking up any time soon.
My thick cock drags over her center, earning me a sleep-filled whimper from Greer.
It shouldn’t, but it colors my world with vibrant strokes of red, red I want to paint myself with, using her as the brush.
I never knew watching someone sleep could make me so hard before. Not even death itself stirs the hungry beast inside of me.
She’s going to catch me if I don’t stop, but the urge to feel her wetness coat my fingers has me doing the unthinkable, for most men, anyhow.
I slide my hand beneath her nightgown and push her panties to the side.
Her body is in overdrive, her hips undulating against me, seeking my touch like it’s natural, like it needs me.
I’ve never been needed before.
It’s more thrilling than I could’ve ever imagined, even if she’s unconscious beneath the weight of my drugs.
“So fucking wet,” I mutter aloud, unthinkingly.
Her answering mewl gives the illusion that she’s heard me, and I want to slide my cock inside her perfect mouth and gag the wicked tormenting sounds right out of her until her lifeless eyes look up at me, open and devoid.
Now, there’s an idea!
I shake my head, pulling my fingers from between her lush folds, her scent coiling into my brain as I back away from her on the bed.
I don’t have time for the voices tonight; I’m on a mission.
I watched her tonight, focusing my gaze on the back of her head as she laughed and talked with a man outside the local cafe.
The temperature was mild for a summer evening, so they took seats on the outside lanai. Her summer dress, covered in lemons, was high enough that when she moved just right, I’m sure you could see the apex of her.
If one were in the proper position, that is.
I, myself, was watching the subject of her affections, while running his face through software recognition and gathering intel on him, how dare he speak to her? How dare he even think about touching what’s mine?
Jack.
It’s not even a respectable name.
Jack reaches across the table, running his hand over hers, and her back stiffens.
She should know the drill by now. I killed the last man she took to the movies—mind you, he deserved it. How often had I heard her say no when he tried to brush his hand up her thigh as the movie played?
Enough that it took every ounce of restraint I had not to kill him right then and there. Splattering his blood across the screen would’ve been so satisfying.
Alas, I waited.
Followed him.
Avenged each touch he landed and some that he didn’t. Some he only thought about in his perverted, fucked-up little mind.
If she knows David’s dead, she hasn’t let on.
