Each subsequent question has me more worried about my safety and my mental health.
I was already teetering on the edge mentally when he kidnapped me.
Driven there by him, but that's semantics.
"I was trying to survive you," I finally answer, feeling stupid and ashamed for the admission.
I can feel his grin as much as I can see it. His fingertip now teases around my nipple, and I hate the way my body responds: my nipple rising to meet his touch, stomach coiling into a knot of lust, goosebumps working into my heated flesh.
I haven't been touched in so long, well, when I was aware of it, anyhow.
"You think you can survive?" he whispers. "That's.... adorable." The word from his lips seems far more menacing than it should.
I swallow thickly, emotion knotting in my throat. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't do that." His finger trails beneath my breast, tracking the curvature back and forth.
Inwardly, I wish he'd touch me more, touch me lower.
I stow the thought as I try to keep a grip on reality, the one where a serial killer is the one at the helm of my pleasure.
Keep him talking, I remind myself.
I need to get to know him better, deeper.
I need to become something he can't kill so that I can outlast this situation long enough for my rescue.
When his finger trails over my belly button, teasing around it in mind-numbing circles, I wonder if I'll ever be the same after this.
"Don't apologize to me," he says softly, lifting to hover over my lips.
I've only tasted them when they tasted of me, and a sick, twisted part of me only wants to taste him in that way. I want him to taste like me for the rest of his life.
The mounting thoughts are the side effect of his touch; they have to be.
Clearing my throat of his influence, I ask, "Why?"
"Because you don't mean it."
I open my mouth to argue that I do mean my apology; I know it would be another lie.
Snapping my lips closed helps keep the moan that bubbles up from his touch from taunting my pussy lips from spilling outward.
His finger sweeps back and forth, never entering, only ribbing the boundary they offer.
"You don't have to lie here. You don't have to pretend, either. You can be yourself. Or," he claims my pussy with two fingers that breach my outer barriers, "you can be someone new."
"W-what?"I ask breathlessly.
He smiles, the moonlight from the window making it look far more terrifying. "I don't think you know yourself as I do, Greer. Perhaps instead of trying to escape, take the time to learn about yourself. Plunge into your depths and have a look around." He's said it as his fingers stole my breath.
Even though I just came, the pleasure he offers promises to be far more satisfying. "You don't know me," I argue, even though it's said on a moan of submission.
My body arches off the bed, begging him for more.
"You wish that were true," he whispers in my ear, standing to gain more leverage before thrusting his fingers deeper. "You wish I didn't know how you take your coffee or what body wash you love. You wish I didn't know what you sounded like when you come for me versus what you sound like when you make yourself come. You've been a study of mine for a long time, poison. No one knows you better. No one will ever know you better. If you'd just behave, you might enjoy your time here."
That's the second time he's spoken about my time here as if it'll come to an eventual end. It's like he knows he can't keep me.
