Page 154 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

I scrubbed both hands down my face. I'd interviewed children who'd survived house fires. Pulled addicts out of ditches. Knocked on doors no husband or wife should ever have to answer. None of it had hollowed me out quite like those seven words.

This is what a hug feels like.

How the hell does someone reach adulthood without ever knowing that? How many people had walked past her? How many had looked at that smile, those jokes, those ridiculous ceramic gnomes and never noticed the little girl underneath all of it was still waiting for somebody to hold her?

My jaw clenched.

I stood before I could think about it any longer. The shower. Cold water usually shuts my head up.

Usually.

I walked into the bathroom, stripped off the sweat-soaked shirt and let it fall beside the laundry basket. The mirror caught me for half a second. Scar across the shoulder. Knife wound beneath the ribs. Burn marks. Shrapnel. The bullet scar low on my stomach.

A road map of every mistake I'd survived.

I turned away before the memories could start reading themselves and strided into the shower.

With my face tilted back, I turn the handle and the cold spray pours over me, shocking me back into the present. My muscles start to unclench as the water slowly warms. I need to focus on what’s important and that’s the same thing it’s always been. Surviving.

Heavy with memories, my head tips forward. Steaming water cascades through my hair, the sudden warmth after the cold shock making me appreciate it even more. It’s easy to get used to the quiet, static baseline of this mountain valley. Easier yet to forget the edge. As if to remind myself that I’m human, my hand reaches down to trace the old gunshot scar on my stomach. It’s the closest I’ve ever come. Even with the deployments, the frozen nights, the starved days in the field, that little piece of jagged metal was the closest I ever came to death. There’ve been times I wish it would’ve taken me. Done me in. But I still have moments I’m glad I’m alive.

Like last night.

My eyes slowly open, locking on a small, smooth bottle resting on the corner shelf of my shower. I bought it thinking about her. I shouldn’t have but fuck me that never stopped me before. Bending my broad shoulders, I scoop up the plastic container, pop the lid open, and inhale.

Vanilla and with a hint of roses.

It’s sweet, but it’s not light or fragile or carefree. It’s... dark. Heavy. I breathe it in again, and my mind is instantly filled with her.

Seraphina.

Her pale skin. Her dark, unblinking eyes. My breathing picks up, the air thick with steam and her scent. The sudden, intense memory of her excitement shouldn't hit me this hard. I want to protect her. I want to walk away so she doesn't get pulled into the blackness that follows me everywhere, but her eyes... those goddamn eyes.

The deep, bottomless depth in those dark orbs. When she stood on my porch in that clinging white linen dress, she stared up at me like I might save her. Like I was something other than the bogeyman lurking in the shadows of this valley. Like maybe I could be more.

And the moment her small fingers curled around my forearm, pulling me down to her mouth...

I groan, a low, guttural vibration in my chest, and my body reacts the same way it did on the porch, hardening to its full length beneath the spray.

"Fuck," I bite out the word, the sound bouncing sharp off the tiles.

I tip the bottle over, filling my palm with her liquid soap, the pale amber cream glistening under the dim light. Setting the container down, I brace my free hand flat against the cold marble wall, leaning my weight into it as I lower the other.

You’re a sick fuck, Reed.

But even the internal warning can’t stop the baseline from fracturing now. My palm connects with my cock, and I let the vanilla-scented lather engulf my senses completely.

"Fuck," I hiss through my teeth, my grip tightening as the soap removes every bit of friction, making the skin dangerously slippery.

Squeezing my eyes shut under the running water, I begin to stroke, the motion fast and rhythmic. Only instead of my hand, my mind completely overrides the room. I imagine it’s Seraphina’s sweet, hot body pinning me, her slickness, her desperate need for me taking over the layout.

Pumping my hips, I fuck my fist and pretend she is with me in the shower. Pretend it’s her dark eyes blinking up at me in the shadows, a mix of absolute hero-worship looking back at me, tightening my balls until they ache. I think about the way her perfect breasts would bounce as I slammed into her, our hips connecting with a heavy, wet jolt that would shake her entire frame.

Her soft curves writhing underneath me. Trying to get away from the sheer weight of me, yet trying to pull me in deeper, wrapping her thighs around my waist.

She’d probably cry out. My fingers squeeze harder, the motion turning brutal, punishing. She’d probably scream my name so loud the birds would fly away, the sound reaching the deepest parts of the woods. Her previous experiences hadn't been with someone twice her size. Not as ruthless. Not as cruel when the possessive heat takes over.

My hips thrust faster against the air, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. I bet she’d take me so good. Those pouty lips. Those full, flushed cheeks. That theatrical girl could take all of me. She could swallow it whole.