Page 54 of Executing Malice
Done with his shit, I fold my arms and glower at him from ten feet away “You can fuck right off.”
He tilts his head. A terrifyingly casual way serial killers do in movies while covered in blood and wielding a butcher knife. Impossible, but I swear even his bike growls a little louder.
“Get on, or I get in your car.” The hand on the throttle uncurls and he straightens in his seat like he’s fully prepared to hop off and follow me. “Where I will have full use of both hands.”
My breath hitches. Not because of the threat, but because I know he means it. I know he’ll slide into my passenger seat, kick his boots up on the dash and torture me the entire way home with the damn toy still nestled between my walls.
Still, I don’t move. My defiance is a steel rod bracing my spine as I glare like a petulant child at the asshole killing any chances I may ever have of being with another man.
“I will get you for this,” I hiss through my teeth.
“Promise?”
I stare at the helmet still dangling from his fingers. Every inch of me wants to slap it from his hand. But there is a part of me curious to see what his plan is once I do.
I’m obviously every serial killer’s dream victim, but something tells me he’s not going to kill me ... the traditional way.
Infuriated, I stalk forward on jelly legs and snatch the offered helmet. All the while, I stare into the visor with all my brewing frustrations.
“You’re very upset for someone who had multiple orgasms,” he muses in a tone that has me gritting my jaw.
“Unwillingly!” I snap, poking him in the chest with the helmet. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts right now?”
His response is the solid grip of his long fingers around the delicate bones of my wrist. I’m too caught off guard to react when he tugs me straight into his arms.
“Then I hope you learned a lesson.”
It takes a lot of effort to chew down the grin itching the corner of my lips.
“Is that how you plan on solving all our arguments?”
His hold tightens, a cobra coiling around my middle, caging me in the powerful lock of his embrace.
“Only the really important ones. Now, get on.”
I resist long enough to give a slow rock of my head. While amused, I’m notthatamused by his shenanigans. I’m more annoyed with myself for still wanting him. Still craving him in a way that makes me certifiable. This guy has proven to be insane. Full out admitted to it. Yet...
Gingerly, I take a step back, breaking his hold. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches me from beneath thatfaceless helmet, chest rising and falling like he’s already counting the seconds until he can pull me back. I wish I hated the way that makes my stomach hurt.
But a much larger prickle has formed at the back of my skull. A nagging I ignored every time he slipped into my life. The red flags I turned a blind eye to.
Who the hell is he?
I have no doubt in my mind that he’s not from Jefferson. No one like him lives here. He knows where my house is. He broke in, and I let him. I let him crawl into my bed. I let him poke holes in my body. I let him cum in me ... twice, without a single protection. I let him torture me to the point of agony.
And I don’t know his name.
I have no idea what he looks like.
How old he is.
Where he lives.
I let some guy stomp into my life and command I obey him or else. Not even a single date. I just gave him all my control.
“I want to see your face,” I state with all the confidence I don’t feel.
In fact, I feel nauseous. I feel drained and alert. I feel the buzz of panic and dread as realization finally sinks home that I fucked up.
