Page 13 of Make Me A Sinner
Frustrating as hell, she finally makes it, dragging herself all the way up the stairs, even if by the time she gets inside, she can barely take a few more steps.
"In a rush to get home?" I ask, mockingly. There’s a line between stubborn and stupid, and she’s on the verge of crossing it.
She doesn't answer. Just limps away, propping herself against the back of a chair, in which she slumps two seconds later. Her attitude seems to have taken a dive for the worse. I know it's because she realizes there's no escaping this time, but she's in no position to pick a fight with me. I've treated her nicer than she deserves, considering what I'm usually capable of. And I know she's aware of it.
That's why I feel the heat rising in my blood, my fists clutching to fight my inner darkness. Luckily for her, I still have enough sense left in me to walk away. I just toss 8-Ball into her lap and take a seat in the front of the jet.
Strangely enough, the cat abandons her after a few moments and sneaks back into my lap, only to ruin my $6000 suit with a claw massage. He purrs so loud that I know it drives Serena insane and the little bastard’s starting to grow on me. The traitor just dumped her, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
Betrayal stings, doesn’t it?
We’re one hour into the flight, and even though I would’ve been glad to ignore her for the rest of the trip, her damn knee won’t leave my mind. It doesn’t look good. It’s swollen, bruised, and that cut hasn’t been cleaned in over half a day.
I call the flight attendant–a very attractive brunette who could sign up for Miss USA, or a high-budget porn movie at least. She shows up wearing a large fuck-me smile from ear to ear. I can tell when a woman wants me, and she's not an exception. I just don't give a damn.
"The medical kit and some whiskey," I order, and she rushes off to fulfill my request. The whiskey is for me to calm me down before I go near Serena because I'm sure she’ll say something that’ll eventually piss me off.
Gathering the last of my patience, I put the cat on the seat next to me and pick up the medical kit. Serena’s watching me with wide eyes as I approach her, then crouch next to her chair to check her leg.
She’s trembling before I even touch her, which shows me she's in pain—a lot of pain, judging by the small beads of sweat resting on her forehead. I could be a jerk and let her suffer; her pain does something nasty to me, something beyond my control. I usually feed on pain, but hers is different. Hers is hurting me back.
"Bring the bottle of whiskey, a glass of ice, and some water," I order the attendant again, focusing only on Serena’s wound.
As soon as she brings what I've asked for, I pour a generous glass of whiskey over the ice and hand it to Serena. "Drink, it’ll numb some of the pain."
I expect her to fight me on it, but instead, she grabs the glass from my hands and drains it without once letting it leave her lips. I know it burns down her throat because tears instantly line up in her eyes, her nails digging into the seat to quiet herself.
I twist the cap off the water, then hand it to her, and she starts gulping, in hopes of easing the burn. Little does she know this is nothing compared to what I’m going to do to her.
Claiming the seat in front of her, I wait a couple of minutes for the whiskey to kick in. She had a heavy pour. Honestly, I figured she’d sip it for an hour. But now, it’ll hit her system pretty quickly. Once I’m sure it has and she’s slightly numb, I kneel in front of her and finally take a look at that knee. My hand sneaks around the back of her upper thigh, and she gasps, the sound making my jaw clench and my pants feel like an uncomfortable accessory. I slide my other hand just below her knee, moving it gently, only to hear a pop. She jolts in the chair, and I don’t know if she's in pain or if she’s just uncomfortable with me touching her. My mind refuses to believe the second part, especially sinceshe seems much more cooperative now than when we got on the plane.
I stretch and fold her leg a couple of times, my movements so gentle, they even surprise me. I know she's in pain, but I really need to assess the damage.
I keep moving her leg gently and her mouth slowly parts. I can sense she wants to say something. She’s just not sure if she should really say it or stay quiet.
My eyes look up, my gaze gentler this time, waiting to see what it is. And she finally finds the nerve to speak. "Can I please call the homeowners? They've been good to me. I need to let them know there's no one there anymore."
"I'll get you a phone to text them. Tell them you had a family emergency and you’re not coming back. Also, tell them to keep your last paycheck. That’ll keep them from bothering you." I say, sliding my hand up on the back of her leg. "Take a deep breath. I have to put this back while I still can." She instantly stiffens, her hands grasping the arms of the seat like she’s holding on for dear life.
I flex her leg a few more times to loosen the joint, then quickly pull until I hear that pop again.
She cries out and lifts another glass of whiskey to her lips while I start massaging her leg up and down to ease the pain. "Breathe. It's okay now. I only need to clean the wound." My hands keep working up and down, warming the flesh. Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths as she starts to calm down, just a little. Not for long, though. The movement hiked her dress, and I discovered she might have left a little piece of lingerie behind. She seems to lack panties, and that makes the situation a hell of a lotharder.
If things were different, I might’ve smiled and let my fingers wander, until I’d end up knuckles-deep in that tight pussy. But I don't think I'm able to smile anymore, she took that away fromme. I just stare at her, probably like some madman, as she yanks her dress down to cover herself.
I brush the thought away, even though, this too, has an all too obvious reaction in my pants.
"Set," she whispers, her voice trembling like she’s having trouble speaking. "I’m sorry."
"Not yet, but you will be," I snarl back, making it clear now’s not a good time for apologies. To drive the point home, I pour alcohol on a cloth and press it to her wound. It stings like hell, and she squirms in the seat, trying to fight the pain—maybe even trying to fight me so I would let go of her leg, which I don't. I just push her back down on the seat, keeping the cloth there, making sure it's disinfected.
She doesn't say a word, though. She understands this is a necessity and not a punishment. She’ll know when I start punishing her.
I look at her wound, and I still don't like the looks of it. It's not deep enough to need stitches, but it's wide enough to bother me. I'm not sure the alcohol did the trick, and I can’t risk it getting infected. "I'm going to have to pour some peroxide on it," I say, announcing the next round of torture. I really wouldn't be doing it if it weren't necessary. But I've seen people die from untreated scratches, and I won’t let her leave me like that. "This is going to hurt a lot more than the alcohol. But I have to do it. You understand?" I ask since I'm not sure if she's still with me between the whiskey and the pain.
She nods. She knows this will sting a lot worse than the whiskey, and I can see how scared she is. "If you hadn't run away from me, you wouldn't be in this mess now." I remind her thatsheis the one who did it to herself, not me. I do have some guilt for chasing her around, but who would’ve thought she would be clumsy enough to break her damn knee?
I twist the cap off the bottle, and she stares at me in terror. I still have to do this to make sure she’ll be okay.
