Page 22 of Haunt

“You gunna swallow that down, Little Lamb?” he asks me, deep and rough, it sends a tremor down my spine.“Me?”the way he says it, with something like reverence.

I nod slowly, dropping my attention from his eyes to his mouth, back up again, “Spit it in my mouth, Billy.”

I extend my tongue at the same time he groans, rocking his hips into mine, slamming me back harder into the stone wall. He eyes the little piece of his tongue I tore from him, atop mine, and then, holding my gaze, he spits in my mouth.

Lifting a hand from my thigh, he palms my throat, feeling me swallow him down and the strangled noise that falls from his own sounds nothing short of tortured.

He grinds himself into my core, squeezing the sides of my throat, he suctions his lips back to mine. Copper and salt floods my mouth, infects my nose, filling my lungs. I breathe him in, earth and grapefruit, sharp and sweet. Let him really kiss me. His tongue tastes my mouth, long, luscious licks over my own. Slower, explorative.

I grind myself against him, firm ripples of muscle rolling beneath me as I drag the heat of my cunt over his defined torso, down to his throbbing cock. I moan into his mouth, arms hooked over his shoulders, my hands clawing at his back, trying to drag him closer and closer.

I want him inside of me.

And then he tears his lips from mine, leaving me gasping, he pants over my mouth, a strange tension in his face.

“Billy?”

“We have to go,” his breath against my mouth, vibrations from the ghost train mechanics running down my spine. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he whispers, and my blood suddenly runs cold. I shift in his hold, “Nellie.” His fingers only tightening until the pressure makes me wince, I still. “Even when you think you can’t, even when it seems impossible,” he swallows hard, and we are tethered. I cannot look away even though I think I want to when he says, “Even when you hate me.”

Not if.When.

I want to protest it. Tell him that I could never hate him. Even though I told him exactly that only hours ago. I didn’t mean it. Icouldn’t.He knows this too.

I am lovesick.

“Don’t say anything back,” he says, his voice deep. “Just, please,” I am silent, “trust me.”

My eyes flicker between his, one of his hands sweeping up my spine, cradling the back of my skull, fingers beneath my hair. His light eyes gleam with darkness, something unspoken that I think, perhaps, might be hurting.

“I trust you,” I say because I think he needs to hear it. “And, Billy,” his eyes wide on mine, I bring my hands to his face, cupping both sides of his jaw. “I will love you enough for both of us,” I whisper the words, my heart squeezing in my chest.

Bringing his lips to mine once more, all he manages to say is, “Thank you, Little Lamb.”

And it feels like I’m falling into an abyss.

Silence.

It is deafening in the dark.

There are insects chirping and buzzing, crickets and grass beetles, the collection of them like a sinister symphony, but I don’t really hear any of it at all. Fingers interlinked; we walk hand in hand across the dry field. In the black of night, my other senses heightened, I am alert. Overtly.

To her.

Shivers rip through her, making her teeth chatter. It is not cold, the air is warm, the breeze cool, and she has two layers on with her long-sleeved shirt, dress over top.

Yet, it’s as though my soul is rattling around inside of me, a warning, perhaps, preparation. For what I know is coming. She hasn’t asked any questions. I am not sure she would like the answers. I am not sure I would even give her any.

She is submissive,to me. Even when she shouldn’t be. It’s as though she catches sight of me, my scent, and she is trained, somewhere deep in her soul, to follow me, my lead. Submit. And Iwanther to. I want her to do everything I ask of her.

She is lovesick.

So am I.

And I am not upset about it.

The thought of having her attention, undying, unwavering, for the rest of our lives fills me something indescribable. I have waited, starved of her, for far too long.

Palms clammy, sweat slick on my nape, I swallow, iron ominous on the back of my tongue. I am ready. Even if she is not. And as I think it, she tucks herself closer, our arms brushing. I look down at her, but she doesn’t look up. I watch her take in our surroundings, piece by piece, her eyes wide like saucers. I cannot distinguish the bitter chocolate brown of her irises from the black of her blown pupils. I watch her see the huge, shadowed building come into better focus. The one we are heading towards.

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