Page 25 of Property of Necro
Time ceases to exist.
When he comes, he stills, and glorious heat floods my core. I sag against the casket in relief, unable to hold my legs up any longer. Resting my cheek against the cool lid is a reprieve as sweat drips down my brow onto the shiny finish. A slow, satisfied smile curls at the corners of my lips as I drag my finger through the wetness and catch my breath.
There’s a jangle of keys as Necro walks across the room and opens one of the doors I tried to escapethrough last night. Flicking on a light, he waves for me to follow.
I slide down the casket and stand upright. Cum runs down the insides of my thighs as I shuffle across the room and through the new doorway into a small, attached bath. It features a single-stall shower, sink, and toilet. It's nothing fancy but nothing gross, either. It’s clean, which is all that matters, considering we’re in a church basement. Thankfully, there isn’t a big hairy spider ready to bite my ass as I sit down on the toilet to relieve myself, with Necro watching. He leans a shoulder against the doorframe and quietly observes.
Even if it should bother me, it doesn’t. Not even when I wipe and check to see how much of his cum is left on the toilet paper.
“Am I allowed to shower?” I ask as I flush and move to wash my hands.
Scratching the top of his head as if he’s not sure that’s a good idea, he pauses, then nods once.
Hoping he doesn’t suddenly change his mind, I quickly turn on the water. As I wait for it to heat up, I catalog the minimal soap choices—a bar of soap and basic dollar-store shampoo. Not exactly the best choice for curly hair like mine, but I can’t complain.
Removing my shirt, I drape it over the edge of the sink in case I have to wear it again before I climb under the spray. Tugging the curtain closed, I close my eyes and sigh as heat envelops me. A moment later, the curtain slides back open and remains that way as I wash. Necro watches from the doorway. Whether he’s worried I’m up to no good or fascinated enough to watch me scrub between mythighs with nothing more than soap suds on my hand, I pay Necro no mind as I bask in what could be my last shower in a while. When I wash my hair, I take my time and scrub it twice, knowing it’ll be a frizzy mess when it dries. That’s future me’s problem.
Content to observe, Necro doesn’t rush me, and for that, I’m grateful. Once I’m through, he leaves for a moment and returns with a fluffy black towel and a t-shirt like the one Rot gave me yesterday.
“Thanks.” I smile and secure the towel around my breasts before stepping onto the painted floor.
Necro doesn’t reply, not that I expect him to.
In the mirror, I comb my fingers through my curls the best I can and finish drying off before I slide the shirt over my head. Drawing the fabric to my nose, I breathe in deep. It smells like a man—smoke and spice. Not at all like Rot’s. It’s also ten times softer. Maybe it’s Necro’s. Then again, probably not.
I’m just glad he let me bathe.
Facing him, I tug the hem of the t-shirt to keep all my bits covered and do my best to ignore my chilly toes. “Thank you for this.” I wave my hand around, indicating the bathroom.
Pushing off the doorframe, his expression as closed off as usual, Necro walks away. No acknowledgment. Nothing. I'm not sure what I’m supposed to do, so I follow him. If he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t say as much when he unlocks my bedroom door, and I scurry after him through the dimly lit hallway and up the same creaky stairs from last night.
Staying close, but not too close, I follow him to thekitchen, where Mama is busy humming to himself as he prepares what I assume is lunch or maybe breakfast. I have no idea what time it is. It could be dinner again, for all I know.
“Sola,” he greets, flashing me the friendliest smile.
“Mama.” I return his smile with a smaller, far more reserved one. Calling a man Mama is a little strange, but I roll with it as Necro scoots out a stool by the kitchen island and nods toward it.
Taking it as my cue to sit, I don’t ask questions and climb onto the seat. Then the biker who fucked me into oblivion this morning just leaves without a parting glance.
I drum my fingers on the edge of the island.
Mama slides a plate of biscuits and gravy with a side of scrambled eggs my way.
“Eat,” he orders, setting a fork and napkin beside my food.
My stomach audibly grumbles, and we laugh as I tuck into my breakfast, grateful for another delicious meal.
“You’re the best cook,” I mumble around a bite.
Cheeks pinkening, Mama waves me off with the flick of a kitchen towel. “Oh. It’s nothing.” He shrugs.
“It’s not nothing. This is incredible.” There is no way these biscuits came from a can. They’re homemade. The flour residue left on the island confirms as much.
“I’ve always liked to cook,” he comments, placing fresh biscuits from the oven onto a platter and carrying it to the center of the shared table, where all the men eat.
“It shows,” I praise, damn near moaning when the fluffiest eggs I’ve ever eaten give me a mouthgasm.
I'm not sure if I should get up and help, so I remainseated and watch Mama work. He pours the sausage gravy into two large boats and carries them to the table, along with a big platter of fluffy eggs and another platter with hash browns.
