Page 8 of Massacre Monday
My back hits the tile wall, and I slip down to sit beneath the rainfall shower head so I canthink.
That foreboding figure from the woods won’t leave my mind. When I shut my eyes tight, I still sense his presence lording over me. I’ve never felt this repulsed and turned on at the same time.
Oddly, I find my clit pulsing at the recollection of being on my knees for such a large man, encouraging me with his words of praise. My fingers slip between my legs to relieve the ache building there as my nipples pebble, remembering the corded thickness of him against my tongue. The gentle stroke of his thumb over my cheek. Rugged sounds of his dirty talk, even all the degradation and humiliation.
I’m not sure why it makes me so hot, but it’s enough to weaken my thighs until they shake, quivering around my hand as I rub faster and harder.
I picture the stranger here, observing me from the corner of my shower. His light eyes would capture mine while he wears a smug grin, tilting his head as he scans over my entire body. Everywhere his gaze touches would ignite with tingles.
He’d be pleased I’m touching myself at the vision of his cut naked figure. Imagining it, I tumble over the edge and come with a gasping moan. My pussy squeezes tight inside, needing more, and I wonder what it would have been like if he’d taken other parts of me tonight.
When I finish and take my time to gather my breath, I return to being disgusted with myself. My biggest hope is that I don’t fall asleep thinking about this when I’m fifty years old, cringing with embarrassment at how stupid I was.
After I wash my hair and dry off, I grab fresh panties, an oversized black T-shirt, and cotton shorts from the walk-in closet next to the bathroom. Back in my bedroom, I freeze with my hand on the door frame.
“I’m so sorry, Pip. Come here.” With his head lowered and brow furrowed, my twin brother looks like he’s the reason for my sorrows. His arms open wide, and I rush into them until he hugs me so tight, I think I may be alright.
If Oz could listen to what happened without flipping out, I wouldn’t feel so ashamed. He’s so tall now that his chin rests on the top of my damp head while I press my ear to his chest to focus on his heartbeat.
It’s just like mine.
“Want me to kill him?” he asks. For a moment, I think he’s talking about the man from the woods, then realize he means Nico Griffin. His twin senses must be alerting him to what occurred at The Underpass tonight.
I sniffle a laugh and shake my head. “No.”
The problem is…Nico isn’t the one I’m worried about, for once. Oz is aware of my feelings toward my childhood crush in sordid detail. We share everything openly and freely.
Until now.
If he found out what I did on my knees for astranger, that it wasrecorded, he and my father and oldest brother would probably lock me up in a tower, never to see daylight until my appointed ceremony, whenever that will be. The man has footage of mebeggingfor it. They can never find out. Not to mention, it could hinder my ability to be assigned to someone decent.
The itch of annoyance at the thought returns, worried I’ll be matched to a Viscount who will force me to become a gingham dress-wearing housewife. One who bakes and cleans up their dirty handprint smudges on the stainless-steel refrigerator. Awife forced to clap softly as they accept awards for whatever career they are slated to join.
Is that what I’m destined for? I really hope not.
There has to be more to life than being obedient and ornamented. I don’t want to be someone’s prize—I want to be my own escape plan.
With a squeeze, Oz murmurs against my head. “You know he’s a ho. He’s not good enough for you. I wish you would realize that.” When I tilt my chin up to look at him, he greets me with a soft grin. “I understand. It’s the dimples, but he’s not evenmytype.”
“That’s because he’s your friend.”
Oz releases me and shrugs, then wanders around the perimeter of my room, taking inventory of things to mess with.
When I slide under my purple-and-black velvet duvet, he lifts the top of my jewelry box, the discordant melody chiming while the ballerina jerks in halting arabesques. I grab a balled-up sock from underneath my cotton sheets and toss it at the lid until it slams shut, but he’s moved on to pick up my stiletto from the evening. He casually launches it at my pillow, which I shove off the bed and onto the floor.
“Well. If you want to talk about it, I’ll squat in here with you. Otherwise, I’m going back toCall of Duty.”
I wave him off and shake my head, not wanting him to stay. If he does, I think my guilt at not being able to tell him everything that happened will consume me all night. I’ll never sleep.
“It’s move-in day tomorrow. Are you packed?” I ask.
While his tongue toys with his snakebite piercings, he gives me a wan expression, his eyes pointedly scanning the mess covering my room. “Areyou?”
“Touché. But I bet I’ll be ready before you.”
“Right…”
On his way out the door, he knocks over a pile of clean laundry that tumbles onto the chaotic floor, then flips off the light and flings the door all the way open, yelling, “Goodnight! Love you!”
