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If he was determined to challenge me, I would do so with as well with him. Wasn’t it true about skeletons and secrets? Everyone had at least one in their family or life.
I almost giggled from the ridiculousness of my thoughts. His family supposedly hunted and killed people on the family estate, and my uncle was a confirmed serial killer. Oh, we were a perfect match indeed. Although I wasn’t certain I was buying the passion and intimacy part so quickly or easily.
Sighing, I was furious with myself that I seemed caught in a box wrapped with chains, unable to free myself. It was silly, something I never did.
Or had I been doing so all along?
As I closed my eyes, my mind drifted to the first time in Easton’s office. The way he’d touched me then had been rough, his certainty I was a woman for hire the reason. But his touch before, the way his fingers danced across my skin had been scintillating.
My breathing ragged, I wasn’t aware I’d rolled my knuckles down the side of my neck until I was sliding them up and down between my breasts. Even worse, the moment I took my index finger, rolling it around my nipples, both were hard as diamonds.
Every action the man took as always had a sensual air about it. And it was apparent I wasn’t the only woman attracted not just to the bad boy side of him but the dark hunger and predatory longing enveloping every bat of his long eyelashes.
My pussy was throbbing even more than before, my inner core as heated as it had ever been. He’d pulled at my heartstrings, probing the same shadows I suspected he lived in.
I shifted back and forth on my seat, clenching and releasing my pussy muscles several times. Horny wasn’t the word for the way I felt. I could run downstairs right now, begging to suck his cock.
Bad girl, Sara. Very bad.
At least I was able to smile from my lurid thoughts.
I was a plethora of thoughts as I sat in front of my laptop, including quotes I’d memorized over the years. It had been a memory exercise but had turned into a passion, or perhaps a method of indulging in the odd demons Easton had mentioned. Somehow, he’d figured out quickly that I was a little too much like him. Granted, given the theme of the class had been ‘Delving into the Darkest Part of Humanity,’ my overwhelming enthusiasm was something of a giveaway…
While I certainly hadn’t shied away from the work to any degree, he’d been right in determining I’d been fearful that my writing would draw attention. Not just to my uncle and the horrible world he’d created but also in the strange thoughts and desires I’d had since I was a kid.
I drummed my fingers on the glass surface, trying to figure out what the man wanted from me. I’d killed three people in a five-thousand-word story. I’d shown the reader the sheer joy the killer experienced when doing so, the longing to act on his desires again. What had I done wrong?
As I read over a couple of passages, a slight and very strange sensation crept through me. I rose to my feet, heading into the bedroom to stand and stare at the roses. They were truly magnificent in every way, yet another cold shiver slipped down my spine. Unable to help myself, I tipped the vase, gathering some of the water on my fingers. As I brought it to my face, I took a deep whiff. Yes, the substance was watered down but unless my mind was playing tricks on me, I was able to detect a slight hint of a coppery odor.
The stench of blood.
I dared bring my finger to my lips, darting out my tongue. While I could taste nothing, I was certain he hadn’t been lying to me.
I’d simply forgotten to ask whose blood he’d used, although I hadn’t seen any cuts on his fingers or hands. What was I doing? This was crazy. He was trying to push my buttons, which in turn would activate that dark part of my mind he was looking for.
The part where a killer could feast and survive.
Now I knew I needed to add to the story. He’d been right. I’d held back enough I was certain no reader would have been able to feel the emotion, the deep conviction the killer I’d used had felt deep inside, just like the burning need he’d mentioned.
I returned to my desk, eager to add another layer of depth to the story.
As my fingers started to fly, not only did I feel a sense of urgency but also one of incredible freedom. My character had been two dimensional, his inability to express himself all because I’d locked my mind off. So I put everything I had into reworking it.
When I finally looked up at the clock, two hours had gone by. I’d all but reinvented the wheel, which made me laugh. No one could ever accuse me of not taking a task seriously.
More gleeful than I’d been when writing anything to this point, I read the piece over one last time before feeling confident it was exactly what Easton was looking for. Without second guessing myself any longer, I typed in his email and hit send.
As I sat back, a strange series of emotions came over me as if I was opening Pandora’s Box and I’d never be able to close it again.
I had a few hours before dinner. Perhaps I would try to relax, even falling into a book myself for a change. I’d heard it was important for writers to enjoy reading. Maybe before dinner I’d grab not only a glass of wine but a hot bath. Why allow such a glorious bathtub to go unused?
Why allow my wicked mind to go stale?
Exhaling, I shoved aside everything but reworking the story.
CHAPTER 15
“The tragedy of life is not death but what we let die inside of us while we live.”
