Page 47
“When was this?”
“Other night. When I left work.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“My brother’s a cop. I could’ve. I should’ve. Jonah would probably sever Harvey’s nuts, though, and then he’d get in trouble for that. He doesn’t need all that right now. ‘Sgotta lot going on.”
Of course her brother’s a cop. And I’ll be sure to take my time wringing Jackson’s neck for his scrupulous research skills.
“This Harvey sounds like a piece of work.” I have no intentions of encouraging her to go to the police about the note. Better to go along with her story.
“Wan’ know how I got m’name, Voss? My parents had sex. In Nawlins.” Snorting a laugh, she rubs her hand over her face and bites her bottom lip. “They got it on drunk. So it’s only fitting I’m drunk, right? I’m an oops baby.” She sighs, resting her chin against her palm that slips from beneath her. “I think … I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m getting … tired. Need to close … my eyes.”
With a hearty yawn, she rests her head against her palm once more, and eyes closed, she asks, “What’d you say again?”
I don’t answer, and instead tip my head, watching her chest move up and down, her mouth gape while she slowly succumbs to sleep. When her head plops onto her outstretched arm, passed out, I push up from the table and take the last sip of my wine, before setting the glass back down.
I pull her chair back, and as her head wobbles like a rock on a toothpick, I scoop her up into my arms.
“Mmm y’smellrealgoo.” She mumbles incoherently, wrapping her arms around my neck, as I carry her up the stairs. Oddly enough, I like the way she feels against me, tucked into my chest.
I pass two closed doors until I find a large spacious bedroom at the end of the hall. The lace and heavy wood furniture reminds me of my mom’s room when I was a kid, a little outdated, but feminine and warm.
Laying her down on the bed, I take in the scent of her—a sweet vanilla and peaches that hits my jaw with the urge to bite down into that creamy flesh. Standing over her, I run my hand down over her jaw, to her throat, and grind my teeth at the thought of squeezing her there, then down to her collarbone, over her shoulder toward her breast. The intense desire to grope her is stamped out by the visual of her tied up and blindfolded, passed out, just as she is now, while I fuck her unresisting body. So unnatural.
Clamping my eyes closed, I step away from her. From those thoughts.
To fulfill that fantasy, she’d have to be a willing participant. That’s the rule that’s kept my control in check. The one thing that ensures I’ll never be like my uncle, or my grandfather.
My brand of sex would terrify an innocent thing like Nola, though, whose diet is probably strictly vanilla. She’d never submit to something so depraved, so as far as I can see, she’s nothing but a lovely piece of art to admire from afar. An unwitting little canary who’s captured the attention of a starving wolf.
Brushing my knuckles across her cheek, I move a strand of hair from her eyes and stare down at her peacefully sleeping face.
Not exactly hard to watch her closely. With my focus still on her, I back myself out of her room, and close the door behind me.
* * *
Hot steam seeps over the top of the shower as I undress. In the mirror’s fogged reflection, the scar across my eye sticks out from my face like an ominous reminder of why women like Nola are off the menu for me. I’ll never have something so normal, so unsullied. The night I was given this scar changed everything. It turned a decent kid into a criminal, and eventually, a man into a monster.
The craving inside of me is a black hole, a void that’ll never be filled. As if my insides have been hollowed over time, leaving me starving for something darker, more sinister, with every climax. I can’t deny that a fucked-up childhood played a major role in my violent nature. The intersection between a sordid past and my pleasure is a consummation unfulfilled, a temptation I won’t indulge in, for fear that I would be just like the men who raised me.
Men who found sadistic joy in harming women.
I’d sooner starve than feed such violent acts, but I can’t deny the lure of those sounds and the rush of excitement. The fantasies of having a woman like Nola, strong and defiant, giving me some measure of chase. Taunting whatever primitive part of my brain craves the challenge of conquering something wild and untamable.
I press play on the video. It’s staged porn, ridiculous to watch, as the dude reminds me of some old time villain, detailing his nefarious intent in the beginning. Thankfully, he’s quiet the rest of the video, and it’s only her sounds after. Her muffled cries. Her pleas. Her suffering. Again, all staged, but as real as it gets for me.
Once inside the shower, I let the punishing torrent of water beat against my muscles, and rest my head against the cool tiles as it hammers away the tension. My stomach flexes with the sudden rush of blood that reminds me how much I’ve come to enjoy my showers. Historically, it’s where I’ve let a number of subs suck me off after work, before indulging in some of our more illicit pastimes. Tonight, it’s the sounds of a stranger and the visuals of Nola.
I stroke my hand up and down my shaft, taking a moment to squeeze at each exchange. The scene inside my head opens to Nola, chained to the wall in my dungeon, wearing that tight little waitress uniform hiked to mid-thigh. No panties, or bra, beneath.
She struggles to get free, while the woman’s grunts in the video add some dimension to this wicked fantasy. As I approach, the clanging of the chains grows louder, the panic in her voice more audible.
She knows what I want.
Releasing my cock, I take a moment to revel in the torment of wrangling her against me, the need to be inside of her more than I can bear. As she squirms in my arms, her bare ass beneath the skirt brushes across my tip, and my stomach tightens at how soft, how warm she feels.
“Please,” the woman’s voice echoes in the bathroom. “You don’t want to do this.”
