Page 19 of Half the Summer's Night
I slump back, hating myself for following the threads of my fantasy. Whatifhe came back? What if he crawled in through my window, looking like a wisp of shadow? What if he slid into bed and ran his leather gloves up my legs until he pried them apart, and then ran his thumb along my slit until?—
I hardly realize I’m touching myself. But I am, circling my clit over my thin cotton panties.
And I’m still imagininghim, the killer I’ve been tracking since Uncle Vic left me alone in this stifling town. Imagining him sliding up the bottom of his mask like he did before, then kissing me in earnest. On the mouth. On the neck. On the cunt.
I moan softly, shuddering with fear and shame and lust, and slide my panties aside so I can stroke my quickly-dampening pussy.
May I touch you?The growl of his words echoes in my head.
“Yes,” I whisper raggedly to the empty room. “Yes. Touch me.”
I hate myself for imagining what would have happened if he had. Hate myself for imagining him bending me over the table and sliding my panties over my thighs and pressing his fingers into my slit. I don’t know what a leather glove would feel like against my pussy, but god, I fucking want to.
I arch my back, hooking my fingers into myself as I remember what the killer’s cock felt like when he pulled me up to him. I imagine him taking it out, sliding it into my waiting cunt.
I jolt beneath my own touch, shame shivering through me. No. I will not give in to this darkness I’ve worked so hard to carve away from myself. So I force my thoughts to go elsewhere, to something safer, and I settle, somewhat suddenly, on Rowan Hanover, grinning bashfully down at me in his sunny hotel office.
It’s easy, at first, to sink into the fantasy. Me bent over Rowan’s desk while he thrusts into me, his hands squeezing tight around my hips. But as my pleasure crests, the image changes. And suddenly, Rowan’s wearing black leather gloves and a black rubber mask with a twisted, leering face.
May I touch you?he rasps, his cock already buried all the way in my pussy.
“Yes!” I cry out in my bed, my cunt too tightly wound for me to change course in my fantasies. “Fuck me!” I press my fingersdeeper inside my pussy and flop over onto my belly so I can hump my bed as I fuck myself. And because it’s easier to imagine a masked man thrusting his big cock into me from behind.
You did so good finding me,he rasps in my imagination.Are you ready for your reward, little detective?
“Reward me,” I whisper into my pillow, my breath tight and choking. “Reward me for catching you. Please, sir.” My hand is almost numb from how frantically I’m touching myself, sloppily rubbing inside and out as my orgasm crests from somewhere deep inside my core. It’s the same deep place where I hide all my shameful fantasies—dark, blood-soaked fantasies. Fantasies full of bones and death and, tonight, black rubber masks. That evil has haunted me as long as I can remember. Usually, I lock it away. But a killer has unleashed it, and I don’t know how to put it back in.
“Reward me!” I shriek, bucking against my bed. “Please! Please! Ple?—“
When my orgasm rips through me, I can’t speak. My words dissolve into a long, throaty moan, and I fingerfuck myself through each agonizing, exquisite pulse of pleasure.
And the whole time, I’m thinking ofhim.
My nameless killer.
My cell phone rings,jarring me awake.
For a minute, I’m too disoriented to register anything. I’m in my bed, half naked. Sunlight pours in through the window. My sheets are on the floor.
My phone beeps over to voicemail.
“What time is it?” I mutter, pushing myself up. The light in the windows feels wrong. Too bright. Coming in at the wrong angle.
My phone chirps, letting me know I have a text. I must have finally fallen asleep last night, after I?—
I shove my nightgown down over my thighs, heat flooding into my face.
My phone chirps again, pinging and insistent. For a minute, my thoughts whir around: did I have an appointment today? Something I missed by oversleeping? But no. There was nothing on my calendar.
Then a new fear works its way into my chest. That Kaplan and the rest of the sheriff’s departmentknowsomehow. Know that a killer came into my home and I just—let him go.
I snatch my phone up, my heart pounding. Slide on my glasses so I can see. But the call isn’t from the police. Instead, a name flashes on the screen that I haven’t thought about in years: Heather Staunton.
My lawyer from when I killed Blake Fletcher.
An old, paralyzing dread grips me from the inside. My hands shake as I swipe open her text message, which just makes things worse:
Call me as soon as you can.
