Page 12 of The Ripper

The voice in my head was silent, and I was close to bursting in my pants from the much awaited quiet.

I had yet to open my mouth while the flight attendants gave their speech about safety and such, and I tried to focus my attention on something other than her.

I looked out the window, the fingerprint on the glass, the time-grazed seat in front of me, the buttons above me, the lights, basically everything except her, all the while wondering if she recognized my voice.

But I was only human, and like a magnet, Arella pulled my eyes back on her without even trying.

She took a book and a notebook out of her handbag, then pushed her hair back and tucked a few strands behind her ear, her fingers lightly trembling. Then she took out a pack of chewing gum and almost dropped the piece before she managed to pop it into her mouth. A small, mundane gesture that seemed to be the highlight of my day.

I noticed the beauty mark on her right cheek, just under the corner of her eye, the little freckle above her cupid’s bow, the way her nose wrinkled as the mint exploded in her mouth, the tiny blemish on her chin. I wondered if she had any birthmarks, any scars, the color of her nipples and if she had piercings in hidden places.

My eyes fell on her arms, where I could finally see the scar up close, and the tattoo surrounding it. Cherry flowers mixed with thorny branches, leaving each stitch and creeping up her arm, disappearing under the sleeve of her dress. When I noticed her wrists, the whole world seemed to stop spinning, as they were stained by two tattoos she didn’t have the last time I saw her.

Set me on fire.

But I was already burning.

Beautiful, cursive writing.

Her left one read “You could never be ice,” and her right one “You have too much warmth to ever freeze.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I blinked a few times, shook my head, and tried to clear my mind, suppressing the urge to reach for her hands and pull them to my mouth so I could kiss over those wrists.

She had my words tattooed on her skin. I was in her blood, forever engraved on her body. I was stunned, lost for words, out of air. I was high on the rush that those little tattoos injected into me.

When I looked at her again, her lower lip was tightly clamped between her teeth, seemingly considering something before she half-turned her body towards me and held the pack out.

“Want one?” she asked, merely a whisper, the hint of a smile ghosting her lips.

I tilted my head to the side, analyzing her features as I considered her question, my heart pumping faster in my chest as her lower lip lightly trembled when I looked into her eyes, holding her captive in that stare. I caught the slight change in her pupils, how they dilated for a second, and the little inhale that filled her lungs as she held the pack towards me.

“Thank you,” I answered in a low voice, not allowing my feelings to take over my tone as I took a gum, my fingers brushing her skin, lingering on the warmth it exuded.

She frowned a little at the sound of my voice, then frantically shook her head as if to erase her thoughts, and broke eye contact.

What was she thinking about when she spoke to me? And why couldn’t I stop myself from wishing I was the one biting that damn lip?

She put her things on the aisle seat, then buckled her seatbelt, her dress slightly riding up her thighs as she did so, revealing more pale, perfect skin.

I’ve never been a man who liked small or thin women, and as her full thighs came into view, my brain automatically pictured them wrapped around my hips as I slammed into her, then over my shoulders as I feasted on her, and I was sure she could take it as hard as I could give it.

I wondered what she would taste like, something sweet probably, and my mouth watered at the thought. I wanted to kiss her inch by fucking inch, slowly and thoroughly, so much so that my lips were tingling.

I pulled on the collar of my T-shirt, suddenly feeling smothered by her presence, and looked out the window, ready to blow my own fucking brains out as I bit the inside of my cheek in a failed attempt to reduce the swelling in my pants.

My fantasy was undeniably silly, because she looked like the type of woman who would want sweet lovemaking with the lights off, probably under a blanket, the type of woman who faked orgasms to boost her husband’s self-esteem.

Carnal needs and preferences aside, she also looked way too innocent for me, and that thought helped me get my mind out of the gutter and calm the fuck down, even if I wanted to be the one to tarnish that innocence, rip it to fucking shreds and show her how pleasurable deviance could be.

I believed she was just as obsessed with me — or rather, the idea of me —as I was with her, because why else would she get tattoos with my words if she didn’t think of me?

Fuck it. I liked the idea of her thinking about me, obsessing over me, no matter how delusional it sounded, so I chose to believe it.

~ She tattooed the words of a stranger, you idiot. She thinks about him, not you.

~ I am him.

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