Page 51 of Stealing His Cupcake
I know she wouldn’t refuse the ring just like she didn’t refuse to say “I do,” but how much of that was her wanting to be with me and how much was a simple fear of her captor?
It’s ridiculous to wish for Amy to want me, I know. Real life doesn’t work like that. Real women don’t fall for their kidnappers. Amy seemed to have warmed up to me in the past week, though. Is that still fear? A calculated effort to get me to lower my guard? Or could she really feel something positive towards me? I don’t know, and since I don’t want more lies between us, I haven’t asked. I also haven’t given her the ring because I don’t want to agonize over how much of her reaction is real and how much is fake, a pretense to keep herself safe from a creepy murderer holding her captive.
Instead, I’ve dedicated my every waking moment to a grand new project I call Making Amy Like Me. Whatever Amy wants, even if she doesn’t say it out loud, she gets, including as many orgasms as she can handle. That part’s not a hardship at all, especially since she’s incredibly responsive and grateful for every ounce of attention. Seriously, she even thanks me for the orgasms, like making her come is something special, an unpleasant chore I undergo for her sake, when nothing, absolutely nothing, could be further from the truth. I love making her come, having her thighs squeeze my head or my hips when she loses herself in the throes of passion, and listening to her little whimpers and moans. While we’re in bed—or on the back porch lounger, or on the couch, or in the bathtub—I can be sure she’s not pretending anything, that her affection is genuine. The rest of the time, however, I can’t help but wonder if it’s some hidden, bone-deep terror thatis forcing her to smile at me, if she thinks anything less than a constant bright smile will get her bumped off.
Fuck! I’m not used to being so uncertain and indecisive. I’m also not used to having no idea what to do.
Time will tell, I guess. I don’t even have to wait long. If I come home to a SWAT team waiting for me, that will be a pretty solid clue Amy isn’t really into me. I’ve installed a monitoring software into her new phone that should stop her from calling the police, but it’s not infallible. A determined person would surely find a creative way around the restriction. I could have cut her off from the outside world completely, but I want as much normalcy for her as our situation allows, so she’s allowed to browse all the recipes she wants, read up on celebrity gossip, or chat with Kayla to her heart’s content, as long as it makes her happy and doesn’t put me in jail.
Pulling into a gas station, I quickly check on what my cupcake is doing but don’t find anything suspicious. She’s playing music on her phone and occasionally replies to a text from Kayla. The app didn’t mark any of the texts as problematic and a glance into the conversation thread reveals they’re mostly just memes.
I shouldn’t be reading Amy’s texts, I realize that. It’s an intrusion of privacy she wouldn’t appreciate, but fuck, what else is being a bad guy for if not for getting away with bad things? Still, it leaves a sliver of guilt behind. Another emotion I’m not familiar with.
I don’t feel guilty about taking Amy. I don’t. Our meeting was fated, and I say that in all seriousness as someone who doesn’t believe in fate. I’m grateful I found her hiding in Turbo’s dingy apartment but, maybe, our relationship would have worked better if she hadn’t seen the worst of me right at the very start. Still, I’m doing my best to make it up to her. Worship and spoil her, in every way I can.
It’s not just the material stuff, though Amy was excited about the new phone, clothes, and especially the various baking equipment. At her request, I ensured she got promptly tested for all kinds of STIs known to mankind. Fortunately, the test confirmed Craig hadn't given her a nastyfarewell gift before his mysterious demise, and we were cleared to go back to unprotected sex.
Aside from fucking like bunnies, we’ve also been doing other couple things. Normal things, like watching TV—she’s not on board with my theory about Maggie’s grandfather having an evil twin who killed him and stole his identity—or working in the garden together. While I’d never force her into being my farmhand, Amy was adorably excited to get her hands dirty. Then she made me cupcakes, and I slipped into a veritable sugar coma when I tried to eat them all straight from the oven.
Wanting to do othernormalthings with her, or at least what I assume is normal between partners, I text her.
Me
Just stopping for gas. I’ll be home in twenty
Cupcake
Perfect. Lunch will be ready.
She sends a picture of a pot full of stew simmering on the stove. I don’t have the slightest idea of what it is, but I’m sure it will be delicious. And even if it isn’t, I’ll eat it and pretend I loved it, because there’s no way I’m disparaging anything Amy makes for me.
Me
Looks delicious. You do know you don’t have to cook for me, though, right? I could have picked up something on the way.
Although I doubt it would taste as good as Amy-made food.
Cupcake
I know but I needed something to do and… *blushing face emoji* I kinda like the idea of cooking for my husband.
My heart does a weird flip inside of my chest, more unfamiliar emotions bubbling up to the surface. They’re all soft and warm and fluffy and I have no clue how to deal with them.
Me
I kinda like that idea too
Only after I hit send do I realize how fucking corny I sound. Jesus Christ! What is that woman doing to me?
Me
But it definitely won’t be the only thing I’m eating this afternoon *devil face emoji*
There. Perhaps I won’t look like a complete simp now.
God. Who am I kidding? When it comes to Amy, Iama complete simp. Groaning, I run a hand down my face. I’m so fucked.
As I put the gas hose back into the holder and head toward the driver’s seat, my phone once again vibrates in my pocket. A smile tugs on the corners of my mouth as I unlock the screen, certain that an indignant, flustered response from Amy is waiting for me. It’s not. The message is a photo from an unknown number and it takes me a few seconds to realize what I’m looking at. Once I do, my stomach flips and I have to swallow down the bile threatening to rise, because I’m all for blood and gore, but what the actual fuck?!
