Page 39 of Claiming His Bunny
I slip my fingers inside her, curling them to find the rougher spot that should bring her greater pleasure, but she doesn’t react much. Either she’s not very sensitive there, or she’d need to be awake to enjoy G-spot stimulation. She does seem to enjoy me fingerfucking her, though, and when I combine it with more clit teasing, she moans out loud, her hands weakly grasping at mine.
She cries out as she comes, her body tensing up, her inner walls fluttering and pulsating around my fingers. I wait for her to ride out her orgasm, slowly moving my fingers to prolong her pleasure. When she relaxes again, I remove my hand from between her legs and smooth down her nightgown.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, curling into my side. “Nice…dream…”
I pull her closer and kiss the top of her head. “Yes, my bunny. Just a dream. You can go back to sleep,” I whisper, my heart doing strange palpitations when she throws her arm and leg over me. I’ve never felt like this before. At peace, needed. In love. “I love you, Kayla,” I tell her.
It’s ironic. I wanted to possess her. To own her body, mind, and heart. Now it seems the roles have reversed. It’s Kayla who owns me, completely and irreversibly. And I’m not complaining.
Like every morning for the past week, I contemplate staying in bed until Kayla wakes up. And, like every morning so far, I decide against it. It’s not the time yet. Maybe next weekend? I could take her to my place and keep her there as she goes through the inevitable phase of panic and rejection. Once she has calmed down and accepted me, everything will be alright, but until then, I’ll need a safe place to keep her in.
Kidnapping someone is a risky business, but I’ve had a lot of time to come up with a solid plan. I just have to give Kayla more time to warm up to me further, to fully accept that I’m a part of her life now and that I’m never going away.
With that in mind, I slip out of her bed, give her one last kiss, and stalk out of her house. There’s some rustle from the direction of the cemetery as I walk by, but I ignore it. Ghosts don’t scare me.
The noise comes again, making the hair on the back of my neck stand and shivers run up my spine. Is someone watching me? But who would be around a cemetery this early in the morning?
I continue walking, pretending not to notice the stranger’s presence but straining my ears for another rustle. There’s none. The feeling of being watched goes away, too, making me wonder if I imagined it. I’m not exactly mentally stable. Perhaps I’m hallucinating? Or becoming paranoid?
It could be, I conclude. Or it also could be someone watching me, hidden in the trees behind Kayla’s house. Even the thought of someone else stalking my precious bunny makes me livid. I’m the only one who gets to watch her.
I have cameras around the house but not in the trees, an oversight I ought to fix soon. It’s my duty to keep Kayla safe.
Since I don’t have any more cameras on me, I head home, my mind busy coming up with the best placement for them. I’ll need to set up the algorithm to alert me if someone is sneaking around but not give off too many false alarms from branches moving in the wind or animals walking by.
As I gather the gear I’ll need, my eyes are drawn to the screen monitoring Carl Oberman. I feel a pang of guilt realizing I’ve been so obsessed with spending time with Kayla that I have made no progress on Oberman’s case. I still don’t even know if he truly is a child molester or not. But he can wait. Of course he can wait. He isn’t even home this weekend. He’s on a fishing trip with his buddies.
Something about that simple fact nags at my mind. Carl often goes on several days-long fishing trips with his friends, who are high school teachers. This time shouldn’t be any different. Except for some reason, I feel like it is.
Reluctantly, I put the bag with the cameras down and take a seat in front of the monitors. I’ll just check everything is as it should be, and then I’ll be on my way back to Kayla’s place, I promise myself.
Carl’s Facebook feed is overflowing with pictures of him packing his fishing gear and theatrically kissing his wife and kids goodbye. Nothing wrong or unusual about that. So why do I still feel like it doesn’t sit right?
I frown at the comments under the post. “Too bad we couldn’t join you this time,” one says. “SATs suck!” It’s from one of his fishing buddies. They couldn’t come, which means Carl is going fishing alone. He never goes alone.
Well, almost never. The only three times he went fishing alone in the past two years coincide with three children going missing, later to be found dead and showing clear signs of sexual abuse. It’s not proof, but…
I swallow roughly, my throat suddenly dry. It can’t be.
Can it?
Frantic, I access the police database and search through the missing children reports. It’s Friday. Carl left home yesterday and won’t be back home until Sunday. Plenty of time for him to have all the fun in the world with an innocent child before killing them and covering his tracks.
I don’t believe in God, but I pray. I fucking pray to every single deity anyone has ever believed in.
It’s in vain.
Cynthia Parker, an adorable six-year-old with a mane of curly red hair and a surprising number of freckles on her cute cheeks, went missing yesterday on her way home from school. In a town right on the path Carl Oberman would take from his house to a fishing cabin he’d rented for the weekend.
The screen cracks under my fist. I punch it over and over until Cynthia’s gappy smile disappears and all that’s left is darkness. Darkness that floods my soul, my mind, my entire being until there’s nothing else left.
I grab my kill bag and the sharpest skinning knife I own. I’ve never actually used it for anything other than stabbing people, but I’m set on testing its intended functionality now. And after Carl Oberman screams his last…I might turn the knife on myself. Because this is my fault. Everything that happens to that little girl is my fault.
If I hadn’t been so obsessed with Kayla and actually did what I was supposed to do, Cynthia could be at home, having pancakes for breakfast with the rest of her family. Instead, she’s…FUCK! I can’t even think about it. I slam the car door shut so forcefully it nearly comes off the hinges. The second I’m behind the wheel, I gun the engine, not giving a shit about speed limits for once.
For a moment, I feel like the black SUV behind me is following me, matching my breakneck speed as I race out of town, but once I leave the county, it takes a different turn. I guess I’m not the only one in a hurry this morning. Except I doubt whoever is driving that car is rushing to rescue a little girl and brutally murder a disgusting pedophile. That would be one hell of a coincidence.
I drive like a madman, a singular thought echoing in the darkness of my mind. My fault. My fault. My fault!
