Page 13 of White Wings of Desire

Noah

Fuck.

I thought, not knowing beforehand that my target had bullet-resistant windows, would be the biggest mistake of my career. But no, it got worse. Not only did I get distracted and fucked her instead of killing her. I can do one better. I also let her get away. A low groan rattles through my chest, and I run my fingers through the damp strands of my hair. She was still unconscious when I left to shower, and I was gone for no more than five, maybe ten minutes. Who would have thought she would wake up right then?

I approach the trashed bed and yank off the covers. When I lift the blanket, the strong lingering scent of sex fills the air. Waiting for a miracle, I hope the mattress had magically split in half, and she’d sunk into the bedding. But to no one's surprise, that's not the case. My eyes scan the room, looking for any possible place where she might be hiding, but I notice that her things are gone. She really isn't here anymore. I should have killed her the moment I was done with her. Instead, I was blinded and had rose-colored glasses on and let my drowsy brain win, thinking I could enjoy more of her after freshening up.

I pick up my clothes, scattered around the room, and get dressed. As I rummage through the messy sheets on the bed, searching for my suit jacket, I realize it's also gone. A sigh of annoyance escapes my lungs. She must have taken it to cover herself. Whatever. I throw the pillow I'm holding back onto the bed.

Pulling my pack of cigarettes from my pockets, I light one and take a deep drag to calm the raging fury inside me. My gaze drifts back to the bed, the sheets stained with the mix of our combined body fluids. At the foot of the bed, I spot something familiar. Pushing the covers aside, I find her lace thong and matching strapless bra. I smirk at the image of her running out of here without her underwear on. I stuff the small pieces of fabric into the pocket of my pants. If she gets to keep my jacket, I'll keep this.

I walk over to the room's mini fridge and squat down in front of it, looking through the small bottles, and take all the ones with more than forty percent alcohol. Shutting the fridge door, I stand up and head back to the bed, grabbing the book of matchsticks from the coffee table on the way. I dump the alcohol onto the sheets, then light two matches and throw them into the soaked fabric. The flame bursts to life and sets the sheets on fire. Enjoying my cigarette, I watch the flame gradually grow larger, destroying any evidence of our little fling.

I pace back and forth in front of my king-size bed. I haven’t been able to sleep since I got home last night. The demons of my failure haunt me. The morning sun filters through the windows overlooking the backyard. The light reflects off the edges of the dark wood furniture, illuminating the usually dim room with a warm, soft glow. Every now and then, I glance at the matching set of rose-colored underwear neatly arranged on my black sheets. The thong is covered with stains of her past arousal, and the bra is covered with stains of my own blood.

I lift my hand to my throat, feeling the soft gauze hidden by my turtleneck to keep the wound safe and clean. I can't believe I gave her that much power over me, gave her the chance to slash my throat, to kill me so goddamn easily. But she didn't.

I sit down at the foot of my bed, and the mattress gives in under my weight. Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees, nervously tapping my foot against the carpet that protects the polished wooden floor.

In just one night, she managed to turn my whole world upside down. I’m torn. I know I have to kill her. There’s no way around it, but at the same time, I don't want to kill her; no, I want to own her. When I think about her, my stomach flutters with what I assume is excitement; it’s a sensation I'm not familiar with. She was so brave. Damn it, she pulled a pistol on me, she held me at fucking knifepoint. Those are the situations that should make me angry, but instead, they turn me on.

The images of her from last night rush back into my mind: How beautiful she looked underneath me, how well she took me, how well our bodies melted together. I moan as blood begins to pool between my legs and I slump back onto the bed. Reaching for her thong, I bring the fabric up to my face, staring at the dried stains. I bite my lower lip and bring the material closer to my face, and the remnants of her musky scent fill my nostrils. I want to taste her again, bury my face between her legs, and devour her. I want more than just the dull memory of her on my glove. I close my eyes and place the thong on my face.

A soft knock on my bedroom door startles me, and I abruptly pull the sheer material off my face and cover it in my fist, then sit back up.

"Come in," I call, and as expected, Mrs. Collins pushes open the door to my bedroom.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holman, I was just surprised to see you weren't downstairs and wanted to see if you were up yet," she says, her tone as motherly as ever. "Would you like me to start with breakfast?"

"That would be great, thanks." I offer her a small smile. "I'll be down in a bit."

"Of course." She smiles, her eyes drifting to my bed, to the object lying beside me, but without a word, she turns and closes the door behind her.

As soon as the door is shut, I push myself off the bed, grab the set of underwear, and walk over to my bedside table, throwing it in the small drawer for later. I then head downstairs to my kitchen, where Mrs. Collins has already started cooking breakfast. I grab the cup of coffee waiting for me, take a sip, and walk around the island counter to look at today's newspaper.

"How was the wedding?" Mrs. Collins asks, while her focus remains on the pan of homemade hash browns.

"It was okay." I shrug and bring the cup up to my lips again.

"Just okay?" She turns to me, and I see the suspicious smile on her face. I know she saw the bra. It's my own fault; I didn't even try to hide it. The old lady really is too curious for her own good. Still, I find her adorable, like a mother I never had.

"I had fun. Better?" I roll my eyes, hiding the weak smile that plays on my lips behind the rim of my cup.

"A little." She chuckles. "Will we be seeing more of the lovely lady?" She shuffles through the kitchen, putting the hash browns on a plate before returning to the stove and starting the bacon and eggs.

"I don't think so; it was a one-time thing."

"Another young lady that does not meet your standards?" She asks, too curious and too invested in my love and sex life. It's unprofessional, but I know she means no harm and is looking out for me. I wonder if she's like that with her own sons as well.

I look down at the dark brown liquid. "Not this time," I say. "It's a little more complicated than that, and I'd rather not discuss it. I'm sorry, Mrs. Collins."

"Of course, I'm sorry I crossed the line," she says with a reassuring smile as she plates my breakfast and brings it to me, setting the plate down on the counter in front of me. "But if this woman is finally to your liking, maybe it is worth the trouble?" She chuckles and turns away from me, wiping her hands on her apron. "As long as it's not the newlywed bride, of course." Dumbfounded by her implication, I am at a loss for words. Not knowing how to respond, I furrow my eyebrows. "I'm going to start a load of laundry now. If you need anything, please call for me," she says, and with that, she leaves the kitchen.

This old woman really leaves me speechless sometimes. I sit down on the stool by the island, pick up my fork, and start eating. Is she really worth all this trouble? I sigh and look around the kitchen while I eat. My eyes land on one of my beautiful taxidermied doves sitting on one of the open corner shelves.

Maybe there is another way I can add my new perfect little dove to my collection.

Chapter 13

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