Page 55 of Devil Mine

I groan, adjusting myself in my trousers and enjoying the way her eyes widen in response. I grab her pink scarf from where it’s laying on my desk and hang it loosely around my neck.

“I’d say based on the look on your face,amor, you did want to see me.”

She ignores my comment, focusing on the ends of the pink material resting on my chest.

“That’s my scarf,” she calls out, confused. “You…how do you have my scarf?”

“I found it in your apartment. Along with a few other very interesting items.”

A hand comes up to her mouth as shock paints her features. She looks so pretty, fine and breakable like a china doll, and I want her. I want to put her on my shelf. I want to brush her hair and run my fingers across her pink lips and I want to break her. I vacillate between possessiveness and an extreme, dangerously uncontrollable blinding need to own her in every way. It’s dark and primitive and might lead to her accidental destruction in the process.

It’s like the excitement of trying to catch a bubble — so hard to capture, so easy to break if overzealous.

“Why did you keep it?”

She doesn’t even question the fact that I found her apartment.

I bunch the scarf against my nose and inhale, looking exactly like the sicko I know I am. When I open my eyes it’s to find hers visibly dilated, a captivated look on her face.

“It smells like you,” I growl.

She tries to hide her reaction, but I see the way she shivers in response.

“You look…” she trails off.

“Go on.”

“Unhinged,” she finishes.

I take another hit of her scent like an addict puffing on a pipe. “And how does that make you feel?”

“Scared,” she answers.

“That’s not all,” I prompt.

“Yes, it is,” she says stubbornly.

“Not according to this,” I retort, holding up something to the camera so she can see it.

She frowns before realization slackens her features.

“Is that…”

“Your journal?” I say, finishing her sentence. “Yes.”

“You can’t read that, that’s private! Don’t you have any manners?”

“None,” I quip, opening up the notebook and fluttering the pages tauntingly. An arrogant smile stretches my lips as I look back up at her. “You wrote about me.”

The satisfaction I felt discovering my name on those pages rivals what I felt during the greatest accomplishments of my life.

“I said that you were a criminal,” she says with a sniff.

“You wrote about me,” I repeat smugly. “And you’re right, there’s a lot of your usual references to me being a ‘criminal’, ‘murderer’, ‘psychopath’,” I say. “But then there’s this one little entrance. My personal favorite from mid-December.”

“Oh my god, did you read the whole thing?” she wails.

“I can’t believe what I dreamed of last night. I’m so embarrassed, I can barely write the words,” I vocalize, reading her confession.“I woke up trying to make sense of what happened in my dream; all I know is my hand was in my panties and I was touching myself.”

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