Page 4 of Entombed In Sin

He opens the doors and urges me to sit down on his bed.

I plop down without objection. Thatcher leaves me to move around the room silently. As I sit there and watch himthrough heavy leaded eyes, resentment replaces the undeserved gratitude of Thatcher’s attention in the shower. Why am I leaning so heavily on a man who let his boyfriend nearly kill me? He claims he’ll get me back on an equal playing field with Knox but that means this is still just a game to them. My life isn’t a game. At this moment, I hate Thatcher, Sagan, andespeciallyKnox. I hate how they’ve swept in and how I've allowed myself to believe my life could be better with them.

The worst part, though, is I hate myself more than I hate the three of them. I let these guys walk in and take over. I’ve been a doormat all my life, and it seems like I can’t escape that role no matter who I’m around.

I’m sotiredof being me.

Unable to escape the cloud of self-disgust, I allow my eyes to close before lowering myself onto my side. There’s movement around the room but I’m so tired that the sudden jostling doesn’t faze me. It’s not until Thatcher is pulling me into his warm body that I realize he’s thrown one of his shirts on me and is tucking me in.

“I’ll go have a little chat with Knox. Stay here in my room and wrapped up in my things.”

Lips brush the top of my head, but that’s the last thing I remember before I allow myself to slip away into unconsciousness.

2

KNOX

Ifucked up.

I meanreallyfucked up.

Why hadn’t Sagan told me about what Beatrix was doing behind the wall? It would’ve made a world of difference knowing she had been turned on, playing with herself. Maybe not in the moment, but a day or two later, I probably would’ve found myself flattered. The rest of his confession probably would’ve helped me reach my epiphany faster, too. I figured out why I’ve been so moody the past week and why it took so much for Thatcher to beat it out of me.

IlikeStarr Girl.

Not just in the platonic, friendship way I confessed to the Hunt twin that muzzled me. Somehow, in a short amount of time, she’s managed to get under my skin. Which, typically, is an impossible feat. I don’t catch feelings. Not because I’m incapable of them—I just have to like a person’s personality in order to appreciate them in other ways. Yet I learned early on that most people fucking suck. I’ve been let down so many times over my life, I don’t expect to connect with anyone anymore.

I mean, sure, I can pretend to be friends with someone or that I’m into them. For short periods of time, I can be yourbestfriend or an eager lover, impatient to jump your bones. My victims soak up my smile and friendliness like a sponge, not realizing it's just a paralytic before I strike.

Somehow though,I’vebecome the sponge and, unexpectedly, it’s Beatrix that I’ve been soaking up. I didn’t realize her sweet smiles, gentle teasing, and her listening ear had grown to mean something to me. No one has ever paid me much attention, except for the twins, of course. But they lacked the warmth Beatrix radiates. Talking and hanging out with her is like coming home where I’m safe from the trivial problems of the world.

Now I’ve gone and fucked it up. She’ll never trust me now. I’ve spoiled what could’ve been between us before I even realized therewassomething between us. Fuck,fuck! If it felt like coming home, now that I’ve burned that bridge, does it mean I’m homeless? Probably. And I deserve it.

What’s worse? As guilty as I am about putting her through that type of ordeal, I can’t stop replaying the way she cried out my name and came in that coffin.

The hot water from the showerhead beats down my back, burning and stinging, but it's ignored as I pump my fist up and down my throbbing cock. I try to picture my last kill, the terror in my victim's eyes and their whimpers in my ears. Usually, I can visualize it without closing my eyes, but this evening, I really have to focus. My eyes squeeze shut. Even then, the pained sounds of my victim morph into Beatrix's soft cries, groans, and breathless sighs. My name on her lips causes my hips to jerk forward and my hand to slide up and down my shaft faster.

Fuck, I have to stop this.

I should be on my knees apologizing to her, not jerking off to her misery—I can do thatafterI earn her forgiveness. Yet I can’t keep my hand off my permanently hard cock. I went through half a bottle of lotion while I sat on my bed and came into tissuesbefore I slipped under the water in an attempt to cool off my overheated body. Clearly, this isn’t helping.

Out of spite, I hold off my impending orgasm each time the sight of Beatrix flickers across my mind's eye. I don’t deserve to cum. At least, that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Yet… how can I not find it hot as I picture her fighting the urge to close her thick thighs so she can show me how she plays with herself? I can still see her arousal as it dripped from her slick pussy between her butt cheeks and onto the floor of the coffin. And when she came, how her juices flowed freely…

I squeeze my cock, holding off on my release as I open my eyes to glare at the wall.

Cut it the fuck out, I snarl at myself. My cock doesn’t listen. The water isn’t helping me cool down; the sight of my past victims’ terror isn’t doing the trick either. Just as I’m about to give up and cum so that I can hate myself just a little more, I’m hit with a cold blast of air as the door to the bathroom opens.

“I'm busy, get out,” I spit out through gritted teeth.

There's no response. It's quiet for a moment before the shower curtain is pulled aside. I drop my hand and turn around to find Thatcher standing there, naked and glorious, before me. His hair is wet, and his body is pink from the warmth of his earlier shower. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, but this isn't his typical one. There’s a sharpness to it that screams danger. Unable to help myself, my eyes travel down the rest of him and land between his legs. Judging by his swollen, throbbing cock—he's looking for a little relief. Hm, I could’ve sworn he would’ve buried himself in his stepsister, but maybe she rejected him? Or it’s the more likely scenario where he got exactly what he wanted from her, and is searching for more.

I give him a full once over, enjoying the view of his long, lean body and loving the imperfections of it. From each of the smallcircular burn marks that litter his body to the battle scars he'd gotten from a few of his victims—Thatcher is perfect.

“Scoot over,” he orders, a quiet bite to his tone.

“No, fuck off.”

Thatcher’s in the mood to be a dick, I can see it in his eyes. But I’m beating myself up enough as it is.

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