Page 16 of White Wings of Desire

My eyebrows shoot up as she lets out a long breath and lies down on her back with her lower body facing me, pushing off the blanket to expose her bare legs. My mind goes blank, and I almost choke on my breath as she props her feet up on the sofa and spreads her legs, giving me a perfect view of her red lace underwear. I don't even have time to catch my breath before her hand slips between her legs, tracing the inside of her thighs before she brings two fingers flat against her cunt and moves them in a slow, circular motion.

My heart flutters at the sight, while a warm throbbing sensation pools between my legs. The wet spot soaking her underwear grows with every circle she draws against herself. I let out a low moan as she lifts her hips off the sofa and pushes her underwear down, revealing her perfect, rosy, glistening cunt. She looks so damn wet. I swallow the lump in my throat as all the memories of our shared night flood my senses: her smell, the way she tasted, and how perfect she felt around my cock. God, not a day goes by that I don't regret fingering her with my stupid glove on. I want to know what the silky flesh of her insides feels like around my fingers.

My suit pants are rapidly becoming uncomfortably tight. I shift in the creaking plastic chair to make myself comfortable, but it doesn't work. Biting my lower lip in an effort to stay calm, I watch her fingers circle her now-exposed clit before pushing her folds apart to reveal her opening. I almost drop my binoculars when she lifts her head from the pillow and turns her attention to the windows, a small smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. That little bitch knows I’m watching. Her lips part in a moan while sliding two of her fingers inside herself. The digits sink easily into her, and she throws her head back into the pillow, her hips bucking against her hand. Unable to hear the beautiful sounds coming from her lips, I'm left with nothing more than my memories.

There is no way I can make it through this little show without helping myself. My whole body cries out for relief. With only one hand, I struggle to undo my belt, which is harder than I expected. My chest vibrates as I growl in frustration because I don't want to take my eyes off her. My lungs deflate with a sigh of relief when my belt comes loose, and with a quick flick, I undo the button of my suit pants, pulling down the fly. I don't even realize how tight my muscles are until my whole body relaxes back into the uncomfortable plastic chair the moment the tight hold of my suit pants loosens, and my cock gets more room to breathe.

I'm aware of every throb of my cock in my boxers while I watch her pump her fingers inside her, her other hand pushing up the oversized shirt covering her body, cupping one of her breasts in her small hands. Without a single clear and rational thought left, I lift my free hand to my mouth, grab the fabric of my leather glove with my teeth, and pull it off. Pushing the waistband of my boxers down, I free my hard cock and wrap my fingers around the base. Circling the head with my thumb, I scoop up what little pre-cum has come out and smear it down my length. It is far too little to give me a smooth experience, but I have to make it work. I don't have any lube with me, and I'm certainly not going to waste a second searching the shabby apartment for something that might not even be there.

Stroking myself with great care, it doesn't take long for me to match her pace, following the exact rhythm of her fingers as they pump inside her. Her lips part in what I can only imagine is the same cry of ecstasy she made when she reached her orgasm with me, and she squeezes her legs together, trapping her own hand between her thighs in the same way she did around mine.

The memory of her orgasm, her muscles contracting around me, flashes through my mind. In response, I tighten my grip on my cock and reach my own orgasm in the palm of my hand. With every throb, my cock pushes out my cum, the sticky fluid squeezing through my fingers. Ignoring the mess I’ve made of myself, I keep my eyes on her. Her body relaxes, her legs drop, and she pulls her hand back before she pushes herself into an upright sitting position. She stands up from the sofa, adjusts her shirt, and walks over to the large windows. She looks at me, a triumphal smile playing on her lips when she winks in my direction.

My lips twitch into a smile. So this show was for me. What a naughty little bird she is, messing with me like this, not even aware of what she's setting in motion. She turns and disappears into her bathroom, shutting the door behind herself.

With her out of view, I lower my binoculars and throw them back on the table with a loud thud. I look down at myself and sigh when I see the mess I've made. Not only my hand, but my pitch-black suit pants are covered in my cum. I grab the clean handkerchief from the breast pocket of my suit jacket, wipe myself clean, and tug myself back into my pants. It irks me that I have to drive home with these obvious stains, but it’s still better than the blood-soaked clothes in the back of my car. Maybe I should start keeping more than one set of spare clothes there from now on...

Chapter 15

Evelyn

With my apartment door wide open, I lean against the cold metal frame in my fluffy robe, rhythmically tapping my bare foot on my entryway’s cold ceramic tile floor, waiting for the concierge of my building to step out of the elevator. He called me a few minutes ago–waking me from my nap–to inform me that a package had just been dropped off for me. But I don't remember ordering anything in the last few weeks. I perk up at the familiar ping of the elevator, and sure enough, the concierge, dressed in his usual gray uniform, steps out with a package in his hand. I smile and push myself away from the door as he approaches and hands me the package. "Thank you, Markus." Looking at the package I notice that it has no shipping label on it. "May I ask who dropped it off?" I look back at him.

"Sorry, the man was wearing a motorcycle helmet with a tinted shield," he says, his face wrinkling into concerned lines. "Is everything okay?"

I nod my head. "Yeah, I was just wondering if it was a certain someone."

"Oh, a secret admirer perhaps?" he asks with curiosity. "The only thing I noticed was that the man was quite tall," he adds.

He’s tall, of course, but he's not the only tall man in this city, but I don't know anyone else as tall as him who would drop off random packages unless I have a new stalker I don't know about. I sigh and flash Markus another smile. "Thanks, I think I know who this is from. Thanks for accepting the package."

"Of course. Have a nice day, Miss Black." Markus nods, turns, and goes back to the elevator to return to the building’s lobby. I let the door fall into its lock and return to my apartment, heading straight for the kitchen and place the package on the island counter. My attention shifts to the building across the street. Squinting my eyes to get a better view, I check to see if anyone is on the balcony, but as far as I can see, there is no one. I would be surprised if he was. He has never been here during the day, although he watches me all night long; as soon as the first warm rays of sunlight spread over the city, lighting up the busy streets, the silhouette on the balcony disappears, and the eerie feeling of being watched fades. He has become more persistent since my little show. Before, he used to skip nights, but now he is here every night. Doesn't he have anything else to do? Any other jobs he needs to do?

I sigh and turn my attention back to the box. It isn’t a shoe box like last time; it's a simple postal box with nothing particularly suspicious about it. I’m tempted to just throw it away and not bother with what he has sent me, but whatever it is could be important.

Grabbing a kitchen knife from one of the drawers, with a quick slice of the blade, the tape that seals the box is cut. I lift the lid and am surprised to see a beautiful flower arrangement of bright red sweet peas paired with fresh eucalyptus resting on soft, smooth white silk fabric. I pick the bouquet out of the box, the stems of the flowers bright green, as if they had just been freshly cut. It’s stunning, the red of the soft petals vibrant and full of life.

Setting the flowers down, I’m careful not to damage any of the fragile petals or leaves. I will put them in fresh water in a moment. My attention returns to the box and I pick up the small black carton that was hidden by the bouquet. Pushing the latch open, my eyes widen at the sight of its contents: a pistol resting in a perfectly shaped foam pillow. It is the exact same model that was in his holster at the hotel that night, a semi-automatic pistol. His was all black, but this one in my hands has a creamy white frame with a pitch-black barrel. I pick it up and push the button on the side, allowing the magazine to slide out of its well, revealing that it’s fully loaded. It makes no sense that he would send me something like this. He is giving me tools to fight him, to actually kill him.

I sigh and push the magazine back in until it clicks into place, and I set the pistol aside. I move on to the soft fabric resting in the box. Reaching inside, I run my fingers over the silky material; it is smooth and soft to the touch. I own many silk dresses, but I've never touched anything as soft as this. When I lift the white fabric out of the box, I realize that something is wrapped up in it. Noticing the straps, I hook my fingers into the strings, taking a step back to get a better look as the dress smoothes out. With a subtle thud against the tiled floor, what was wrapped in the fabric hits the ground.

I jump back, unable to hold back a high-pitched scream, as I see the motionless white dove on my kitchen floor. Letting go of the dress, I kneel down beside the bird. Carefully picking it up, I flinch when I feel its body still warm against my fingers. It hasn't been dead for long. He must have killed minutes before he dropped off the package. Poor little thing. I run my fingers over the fluffy white feathers of its belly. As twisted as it may sound, I can justify killing people. There are many bad humans among us, myself included. But to kill an innocent creature for something as useless as this stupid game of his fills me with rage.

I rise to my feet and place the dead dove back into the now-empty box before shifting my attention between everything he has sent me, trying to connect the dots of the message he is trying to convey. The dove: I know from the reports that if he sends the whole bird, he will drag out the death of his victim. The flowers: If I remember correctly, I once read that sweet peas mean something like goodbye or thank you for a good time in the language of flowers. But what is he thanking me for? The sex? For giving him a show? And the pistol–this one is easy: he wants me to use it against him; he wants me to fight for my life. But the dress doesn't make sense to me. I slip my fingers through the straps and lift the dress once more. A beautiful, form-fitting slip dress in eggshell white, my exact size. I don't think he wants me to wear it for his next attempt. There is no upcoming event where I would have the opportunity to wear something so elegant.

No, I think the dress is for after he kills me, for my funeral, or whatever he plans to do with my body after he finishes the job. I hug the fabric to my chest and look back and forth between the things scattered around my kitchen. That box didn't help. I don't know when, and I don't know how. All I know is that I have to fight, and this time, I don't know if throwing myself at him is going to work.

In sync, we slam our shot glasses against the restaurant table, and the whole group bursts out in cheerful laughter. I'm glad I didn't cancel this night out with my friends. Most people would have locked themselves in their apartments or left town after the package I got this afternoon. And while I have considered pursuing both options, I know it's useless. Instead, I decided that the best thing to do is to enjoy the time I have left. There is nothing to be gained by locking myself in my apartment and waiting for him. That's what I did for the first few weeks; even after our night at the hotel, I spent days cooped up, much to his twisted satisfaction. But I'm done, I'm done playing his stupid game.

With a tipsy smile, I reach for the fries on the shared plate in the middle of the table and happily pop one of the crispy potatoes into my mouth, savoring the taste of smoked paprika seasoning. After having missed many nights out with my friends over the past few weeks, the chatter and lively atmosphere of the outdoor seating area of our regular restaurant fills me with happiness. I missed sitting out here, watching people walk by, cars passing by, and gossiping with my friends.

"Eve, did you finally get rid of your stalker friend?" Lily slurs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close to her. Her question draws a round of loud gasps from our group of friends. I hadn't told them anything, and Lily seems to have kept quiet as well, up until now. I let out a sigh and wrap my arms around her middle to keep her from slipping out of her seat.

"You have a stalker?" Sarah, one of our other friends, asks with a raised voice full of concern.

"Not anymore. I think he got bored with me," I lie and try to defuse the situation with a soft chuckle.

"Is that why you didn't go out with us for a while?" One of the other girls throws in.

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