Page 11 of Haunting Me

Hand in hand, I pay the bill and guide Layne out of the diner. I head towards the water instead of returning to the car. The bay looks so calm this morning. I’ve lived here my whole life and have only come to the bay’s edge a handful of times.

Layne freezes, unwilling to go any closer to the edge of the pier. My grip on her hand tightens as I urge her to come with me. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the fear reflected in them. “What is it, Ma Petite Mort? Scared of the water?” She nods. Tears welled up in her eyes as she backed away, overwhelmed with emotion. Panic sets in, and she breathes rapidly and shallowly.

As I embrace her, I feel her body relax into mine. “You’re okay, Layne. I am here.”I tell her, wrapping my arm around her back as one hand cradles her head to my chest. “Use the sound of my heartbeat as your anchor," I said, trying to center her. After feeling her breathing steady a bit, I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I- I want to go. Take me somewhere else.” Her voice was trembling as she said, "Wes, please," and I gave in, leaning down to kiss her head.

We make our way back to the car, and I help her into the passenger seat. I fire up the engine, and its low rumble seems to put her at ease as I sit beside her. We turn left and leave the parking lot. Layne takes a deep breath and asks,” W-where are we headed to now?” Focused on the road, “My place. It’s closer.”

My place. I don’t want to go back to her place. Though I'm nervous about her being in my space, I've hidden all traces of my work. My job as an investigator in the district attorney’s office has its perks. With unlimited free rein to resources at my fingertips, I can keep tabs on literally anybody. It makes the task of finding the pieces of shit I hunt a breeze. Nobody suspects me of anything other than being the top investigator in the field. My charming demeanor and sharp suited up appearance has everyone fooled. I turn into the gravel driveway and reach out the window, punching buttons in the box. The gate unlocks, and I pull forward.

“You live in a warehouse? Living up to your stalker persona.” She said.

I pull over, and the sound of the engine dying breaks the silence. The bay's chill hits me while getting Layne out of the car. My keys jingle as I unlock the door and we enter the large open space. My hand finds the switches, flipping them, and lights above us kick on with a low hum. Home sweet home.

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” her eyes meeting mine, “so do you sleep on the floor?”

I shake my head no and motion to the spiral stairs on the left. “This way, baby.” I put my keys down and take my jacket off. With my hand wrapped around her, I led her to the open kitchen. I let go of her hand and grab two beer bottles from the fridge.

I unscrew the top of one and give it to her. She accepts it. Layne takes a long swig. With a nod of my head, I invite her to sit with me on the couch. “So…tell me.”

Layne sighs, taking another long pull from her bottle, and begins. “My childhood was shit, Wes. My parents had …problems.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Problems like they were alcoholics or drug addicts?”

“Yes, to both. But they also were abusive. I was fifteen years old when I overheard my parents discussing selling me to their dealer, so I ran away. I hid out at the pier close to our apartment.” Her words are already twisting my stomach into knots, but I let her finish uninterrupted.

“I thought I had gotten away. But my dad knew I went there to hide out. They found me quickly, and I didn't have time to prepare. They punished me for running away by dunking me under the water and holding me there. My last memory was struggling, my lungs burning. Before waking up in the hospital, I was dead for 3 minutes. They charged my parents with child abuse and attempted murder. My mom killed herself in jail and my father is still out there somewhere.”

Her breathing is slow and staggered as the tears fall down her face. “Atlas was the only person I told about my childhood, and he’s never brought it up again.” I stare at her, my fists clenched.

“He is still alive?” I say through gritted teeth, my anger seeping through my calm demeanor. She nods, fear on her face. Rage courses through me. I stand, grab my cigarettes, and head out to the balcony.

Layne follows me out. The view is breathtaking today. “You’re telling me you have this as a view and you watched me in my little apartment instead?”

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief at her. I take a long drag from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke. “Layne, you don’t get it,” I turn my body towards hers, “giving yourself to me last night meant something to me. I will let no one hurt you ever again. The issue is that he's still hurting you. In here.” I tap her forehead.

“That's beyond your control. My life before you will always haunt me, Wes.” She muttered.

As I flick my cigarette, a trail of smoke follows it before it disappears into the yard below. “I am the only person who will haunt you, Ma Petite Mort. I will kill anyone and anything else that tries to.”

Any normal person would be terrified. She wasn’t. I want to protect her, well, from everyone but me.

She takes hold of my face and gives me a soft kiss on the lips. I lift her and cradle her in my arms, carrying her with ease back into the loft. “As much as I want to fuck you outside, I don’t want to risk anyone else seeing your beautiful body.”

I carry her to my bed and put her down. I kneel and begin by taking off Layne's shoes and socks. My hands reach for her knife harness, and I feel the smooth leather under my fingertips as I unbuckle each buckle, savoring the taste of her skin with each kiss and bite. My cock is aching to be back inside her.

Her fingers glide through my curly locks, and then she clutches a handful of hair. I look up at her from between her thighs, hungry to taste her. My tongue glides across the bottom of my teeth. My fingers reach up and wrap around her wrist.

“I guess I need to tie you up and eat this pussy until you are begging me to stop.” Rising to my feet, I head to my bedside table, returning with a coil of black rope. I guide her back onto the bed and make sure that the soft pillows at the headboard support her head.

With one swift motion, I remove her dress and toss it aside. I leave her in her bra and panties. My eyes drift across her exposed body. With skilled hands, I take the rope and weave an intricate pattern around Layne's wrists. The rest of it I loop through a metal hoop on the bed frame, tying it off. She raises her wrists and tries to pull.

Nothing. She is not going anywhere. As I unsheathed her knife, I felt its weight in my hand and traced it along her chin, dragging it down to her breasts. I think Layne has caught on that I have a blood and knife fetish. I think she does too, by the way her body responds. The blade halted at her hip, and I slid it between the fabric of her panties and her skin.

A quick flick of my wrist, and her panties slice, the blade cutting into her hip. My tongue glides over the cut. With her blood gathered on my tongue, I push her panties aside and circle her clit. With a cry escaping her lips, Layne’s back arches from the rough sensation of my tongue. Layne writhes, and she strains against the restraints. The sound of her fighting the pleasure makes me moan into her pussy. The vibrations from my moan send her near the edge. I feel her tense up and I pull back before she can come.

“N-no, keep going…Pl-please, Wes,” her voice shakes.

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