Page 69 of Executing Malice
I’m still on the floor, it seems. The TV is dark, possibly having timed out at some point. All my snacks and the now wasted bottle of wine are still piled next to me untouched. At a glance, everything seems normal, except for the burning itch in my thigh. The uncomfortable heat pulses in steady waves. It’s the equivalent of residual heat after a burn, but it has me reaching under the covers and I freeze.
I’m naked.
Not entirely. I have my top on, but my shorts and panties are missing.
I shove back the blanket and stare down at my bare legs and tender pussy. The latter feels used and wet. The same sensation as the other night after waking up from my nightmare to a dark, greedy shadow lapping at my core.
Only, I have no memory of him touching me, but one solo mission of sending my hand to explore the area confirms his presence. My opening is slick and dripping.
I wait for the spear of outrage. I wait to feel violated and enraged. I wait for literally any feeling that isn’t some weird acceptance that he used me while I was asleep. But that’s all there is.
Acceptance.
That’s it.
Like it’s perfectly normal and acceptable.
But I’m not given time to fully evaluate my full mental thought process when my fingertips brush the smooth tug of adhesive plastered to the high part of my inner thigh. High enough that it practically grazes my lips.
I blink hard, head lurching with the effort. The room tilts in a slow, queasy circle. I’m too aware of the sour taste coating my tongue, dragging down my throat with every inhale.
My stomach knots as I struggle not to throw up.
Still, I hold it in while pulling my knees apart to get a better look at the clear rectangle of tape and the smudge of ink underneath. The single word. A possessive marker branding me forever.
Owned.
Nothing else. No elaboration, not that there needs to be. A simple and powerful statement of ownership that has my entire being tearing in two. Two warring halves on opposite sides. One in outrage. Adamant and appalled by the claim. One oddly pleased. Even a bit cherished. It’s an odd combination that weighs with indecision on both ends.
He tattooed me in my sleep.
I’ve never had a tattoo. I can’t even begin to assume the feeling, but I know it’s supposed to hurt, especially somewhere so soft. Yet, I slept through the entire ordeal.
Unless...
I glance at the empty glass on the floor next to my makeshift bed. I don’t know what I’m looking for. White residue, maybe. Some telltale sign of tampering. But it’s the only explanation. The only way he could brand me and use me without jostling me awake even once.
At last, my anger makes its appearance. It finally rears its head in indignation, but for all the wrong reasons. Even I have to admit to myself I’m not taking this the way I should be. Any other person, any othernormalperson would be on the phone with the sheriff already. Not furious because they didn’t get to watch the process.
I’m clearly broken.
There’s obviously something very wrong in my head.
The second I became aware of having a stalker, I should have alerted Reed. I should have filed a complaint. I should have led Reed straight to the biker and had him removed from my life.
Though, I doubt he would have left that easily.
I definitely could have been more forceful telling him to leave me alone. I could have screamed in the middle of town, collecting my fellow towns people to run him off.
Again, doubtful he would have given up.
It’s obvious from his pattern of behavior, he’s determined to stay in my life if for no other reason than to terrorize me with toe curling orgasms. Even after the piercings and now the tattoo, I don’t feel unsafe. I don’t feel threatened. The feeling curling up inside me like a cat in a fresh strip of sunlight is pleasure. Giddy delight. His attention isn’t unwanted, even if the logical part of my brain insists it is.
Still, he can’t be allowed to think it’s okay to drug me whenever he feels like it. At least, not without talking to me about it first. Communicating.
That’s the problem, I realize with a new thread of realization. He never communicates. He simply does these things without a shred of explanation and I’m left to decipher them.
That is something we are definitely going to need to talk about. And the helmet. While I love a masked man, at some point, the fantasy needs to end. I need to see his face. While I’m certain I’m not going to be disappointed, I’m not going to play this game forever.
