Page 30 of Psychotic Faith
"Oh god!" Her head falls back against the wall.
"Not god, little faith. Me. I'm your god now. The one who answers your prayers with blood."
I press harder, faster, fucking her with my fingers until she's shaking. Her pussy is so tight, clenching rhythmically, trying to pull me deeper. The sounds of my fingers in her cunt fill the room, mixing with her desperate little moans.
"You're going to come for me." I lean down, biting her neck hard enough to mark. "Come on my fingers while you think about those men dying for you. While you understand that I'll kill a hundred more if they dare look at you."
That breaks her. Her orgasm hits hard, pussy clamping down on my fingers in waves, her whole body convulsing. I work her through it mercilessly, not letting her escape the pleasure, making her take everything I give her.
"That's it," I growl against her throat. "Come for your killer. Show me how hot you get thinking about the blood on my hands."
She screams, not loud enough for anyone outside to hear, but enough that I'll replay the sound forever. Her pussy pulses and pulses, soaking my hand, dripping down her thighs. I keep my fingers inside her, feeling every aftershock, every tremor.
When she finally stills, I pull my fingers free slowly. They're coated in her arousal, glistening in the overhead light. I maintaineye contact as I suck each finger clean, savoring her taste: sweet and addictive.
"Fuck," she breathes, still shaking against the wall.
"Next time," I promise, adjusting my painfully hard cock in my pants. "Next time I'll bend you over and fuck you properly. Make you scream so loud everyone in the city will hear."
The promise makes her clench her thighs together. I can tell her body is preparing for me even as her mind struggles to process what just happened.
"Go home, Faith. Now."
"But Janine!"
"Is under my protection because she's under yours." I unlock the door, though every instinct screams to lock it again and finish what we started. "Everything that's yours belongs to me now. Your revenge, your justice, every person you care about. All mine to protect or destroy."
She pushes off the wall on unsteady legs, the red dress wrinkled, marked with my handprints. She looks thoroughly fucked despite still having her clothes on.
As she passes me, I grab her wrist one more time, pulling her close enough to whisper: "When you get home, you're going to touch yourself thinking about this. About my fingers inside you. And you're going to come again, imagining I'm there watching. Because I'm always watching, Faith. Always."
She holds my gaze for a beat. "Don't kill him."
"Neumann?"
"I need to be the one who takes him down."
Those steel eyes hold me, stronger than any ionic bond, and I can't help it. I nod. "He won't die tonight. I'll just get the girl away."
She flees without another word, her heels unsteady on the carpet. I watch her go, my cock throbbing with every heartbeat,her taste still coating my tongue. The sight of her stumbling away in that dress makes something primal roar in my chest.
Then I turn back to the theater where my quarry awaits.
13 - Faith
The valet brings my car, and I tip him with shaking fingers. The drive home is a blur of streetlights and self-recrimination. I take three wrong turns, my mind replaying every second in that closet. The way I begged. The way I shattered.
My apartment feels foreign when I finally arrive at 2 a.m. I stand in my doorway, fully dressed, afraid that if I go to bed, I'll dream of him. Afraid if I don't, I'll stay awake wanting him.
I compromise by sitting at my kitchen table until dawn, still in my dress, preparing lies for breakfast with my father.
The diner smells like grease and childhood comfort, our weekly tradition since Mom died. Dad sits across from me in our usual booth, the red vinyl cracked from years of Sunday mornings just like this. I stare at my pancakes, unable to focus on anything except the echo in my mind.
Men dead for you.
His voice from last night loops endlessly, that rough growl against my ear while his fingers were inside me. I grip my coffee mug tighter, trying to anchor myself in the present, but my hands are shaking so badly the ceramic rattles against the Formica table.
"Faith?" Dad's voice cuts through my spiral. "You okay, sweetheart?"
