Page 34 of Winter
He closed his eyes. He needed to kill again. The thought of finally killing Inca was becoming all he could think about. His cock got hard just thinking about his knife cutting into her flesh, hearing her shocked, terrified gasp of agony, seeing the ruby red blood spill out of her.
But once she was dead, that was it. The end. So he knew he had to keep his distance until the perfect moment. He knew how to sate his bloodlust on other women. But he liked the idea that Inca knew he was coming for her and that she was his ultimate goal, the suffering of his other victims nothing compared to what he would make her endure.
He disappeared into the trees and found his car, driving into the city. He would sit for hours waiting for the perfect girl, then he would follow her. He thought about the other girls he had killed. The singer had been a mistake, a risk. What was her name … what was her name? Ita. She was the only one who could lead the police to him.
He had been there watching when she sang at Carmel’s that day before she died. He had watched her slap that stupid, drunken fucker who tried to feel her breasts. Spirit. She had that.
Ita.
He remembered the look in her eyes when she realized it was really happening, her long dark hair sticking to her face with perspiration. Her fear. Oh, and she'd looked down on him, dismissed him, laughed at him. Told him to get out, disdainfully. Until she could not speak, her mouth moving aimlessly, loosely, open and shut, dying, losing control. No more laughing.
Or the girl with the spider’s web tattoo on her belly. Sexy. He'd come across her in a deli on Fifth. She had been arguing with the insolent-looking cashier. He'd helped her out. Followed her home. Arranged to bump into her later. She'd been grateful and invited him in for a drink, looking at him with interest. So easy. An hour later, she had been slumped in her chair, looking at him again, this time in confusion as he removed her shirt. He knew she thought he was going to rape her, and looked down at her in disgust.
Whore.
He had told her then exactly what he was going to do to her, that she wasn't worthy and he wouldn't sully himself on her. She tried to move or scream as he raised the knife. Then he had seen resignation as the blade plunged into the center of the spider’s web again and again. So much blood. He liked the idea of Inca having that tattoo; he imagined her with it as he stabbed her to death. It made him hard.
He perked up now when he spotted her. Indian. Gorgeous. She looked so much like Inca that his breath was almost taken away. Sweet face, warm smile. He followed her home almost laughing out loud when she drove back to Willowbrook—so close to Inca—and waited until after dark.
After midnight, with no moon, the storms clouds painting the landscape black, the house was hushed. Footfalls, a whisper of movement …
He stood over her, watching, the knife in his hand. He breathed deeply in through the nose, out through the mouth. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him, still mostly asleep, not really seeing him. He smiled, but said nothing. Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again. She frowned, her face creasing with confusion.
“Are you going to kill me?”
The question thrilled him, shocked him, delighted him. He stroked her face and smiled. “Yes.”
And he drove the knife deep into her belly.
Tommaso stroked her cheek. “You look unbelievable,” he said gently. Inca flushed with pleasure. Her dress was a dark gold, reflecting on her skin, her hair pulled over one shoulder. Tommaso’s eyes lingered on her mouth. “Inca,mio caro,how would you feel about making our relationship more official?” His lips were on her throat and Inca closed her eyes, letting all the tension of the past few days drain from her.
They’d had a quiet dinner at a little place in the city, then Tommaso had driven her back to his mansion. “Raffaelo is away on business,” he told her, with a wicked grin. “We have the place to ourselves and I …,” he trailed his fingertips down her belly, “am going to fuck you in every room in this house, my darling Inca …”
A moan escaped her as he took her in his arms now and she nodded. “Yes, Tommaso. We can talk about us.”
“Good.” He pulled his tie from his neck and, grinning, wound it around her eyes. “Do you trust me, Inca?”
She hesitated a little. “Should I?”
Tommaso gave a throaty chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
Inca laughed and felt him take her hand and lead her somewhere else. She felt a draft of cold air but said nothing as Tommaso began to strip her. She felt his lips on her skin, felt him take each nipple in turn into his mouth. She stroked his dark curls as his kiss touched her belly. Then his face was in her sex, his tongue lashing around her clit, his hands pushing her legs apart. His fingers gripped her hips tightly as his mouth found her and she caught her breath when his tongue plunged deep inside her.
“You taste of honey,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through her. She felt him stand and kiss her mouth. “I want you to feel my cock inside you, Inca. Feel how much I want you.”
He guided her hands to his cock now, thick and huge and hot as she stroked him. “It wants to be in your sweet cunt, Inca, always.”
Jesus…
She could feel herself becoming unbelievably wet as he continued to describe what he wanted to do to her, and by the time he laid her back on what felt like a table, she was desperate for him to be inside her. He teased her, sliding two fingers in and out of her before he took her almost violently, thrusting his engorged cock deep inside of her, harder and deeper each time until she was crying with pleasure. His thumb rubbed her clit and she came explosively, her body jerking and trembling, but Tommaso would not let her rest. He pulled her to the carpet and tugged the blindfold off, only to bind her hands behind her.
“You like this,bella ragazza?”
Breathless and excited, she nodded, and he gave a soft laugh. “Good. Now …” He rolled her onto her back, her bound hands pressing into the small of her back. She gazed up at him; his green eyes were intense, almost demonic against his swarthy skin and dark hair—God, he wasdivine.His body—hard and defined—covered hers.
“You are mine, yes?”
She nodded. “Yes, Tommaso. I am yours …oh…”
