Page 39 of Half the Summer's Night
I think of his chaste, soft kiss last night.May I touch you?
I think of him crouching beside my attacker’s body, tilting the dead face toward me like a gift. He did that for me. He killed for me.
He’s been killing for me.
The idea sparks like lightning. I suck in a deep, shuddery draft of air and drop my hand lower until I’m teasing my clit, shame coursing hotly out from between my legs. I can’t believe I’m giving into my darkness again.
But I am, and my body is wound tight with need. Not just from my killer’s soft, careful touches or his low, raspy voice, but from what he did.
I brace my free hand against the shower wall and hike my leg up on the ledge, opening up my pussy so I can slide two fingers inside myself. I’m drenched, my cunt hot and slippery. It’sbeenhot and slippery. Ever since I heard my attacker’s scream cut off and knew, with a shiver, that I was saved.
I rub against my G-spot with a quickening desperation, one image after another sliding through my head—memories braided together with dark, devious fantasies. My thoughts settle on a terrible image of my killer bending me over the body of my attacker to fuck me from behind, the two of us desecrating the corpse of a monster.
I cry out, then bite it back, afraid he’s still downstairs, that he’ll hear me. But that fear just sends another pulse of lust through my body, because the thought floods me with a new fantasy, of him dragging me out of the shower and bracing me against the wall in the hallway, me dripping water everywhere as he wraps his hand around my throat and fingerfucks me the way I’m currently fingerfucking myself.
My body quakes and jolts. My legs shake. I’m close, and I swirl my thumb about my clit to coax my orgasm along. But all I can do is skirt along the edge.
I moan in frustration, bucking my hips into my hand, and freeze my killer’s form in my mind’s eye. Tall, broad, imposing. Dressed all in black. His leering mask.
I imagine him rasping, “Suck my cock,” and then I imagine kneeling in front of him, taking him out, and swallowing him whole. He’s big, in my imagination. Porn star big. Impossibly big.
“I did this for you,” he says, thrusting his hips against my face, his impossibly huge cock sliding down the back of my throat. “I do all of this for you. I kill for you, Abilene. And you like it, don’t you?”
And it’s with that shameful, terrible truth that my pleasure finally erupts. I shriek and slap my hand over my mouth, jamming my fingers in and out of my pussy as my orgasm pulses like a heartbeat, making my entire lower body contract. I keeptouching myself until it hurts, and I still don’t stop, because I don’t think he would. I think my killer would keep going.
I flip around, pressing my back against the damp shower wall. Steam clouds around me, the water’s still scalding hot in punishment. But I don’t stop. I slide my fingers out of my pussy and zero in on my clit, which flutters against my touch. This time, I give in completely, and I think about my attacker’s death.
His short, aborted scream. The thump of his body. I didn’t see it, the moment of death. But I wish I had.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears streaming down my cheeks and mixing with water from the shower. The shame is almost as intense as the lust. Almost.
I can picture how he did it, my killer. How he broke my attacker’s neck—simply, neatly, efficiently. From the angle of the head, he came at him from behind. Grabbed him. Twisted hard to the left.
My clit throbs, jolting me with pleasure. I play it over and over in my head. My killer calm and collected. The snap of my attacker’s cervical spine. His body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Again,” I whisper. “Kill for me again.”
And my second orgasm tears through me until I’m sobbing.
15
ROWAN
It’s nearly four in the morning by the time I’m able to drive my latest victim down to Pier Fourteen, about six miles outside of town. Still firmly in Rosado County, though, which means when he’s discovered, my Abi will get the call.
I park my car at the pier and cut the engine. This part of the beach is isolated. It’s too rocky and dangerous for swimming, so it hasn’t been built up like the ocean front in Rosado proper. No beach houses, no hotels, no cheesy pirate-themed seafood shacks. No one’s ever here.
More importantly, there are no surveillance cameras. No floodlights. Just a rotting pier that ought to have been condemned ten years ago.
Which makes it perfect.
I climb out of my car, bringing the case of Lone Star beer I bought at the Walmart on the edge of town. Liquor would have been better, but this’ll do fine. I carry it onto the pier, moving as quickly and methodically as I can. I don’t let myself get distracted by my memories from earlier. Not the feeling of Abi’s warm body against mine. Not the sound of the water running through the house’s pipes as I tidied up downstairs, my cock throbbing at the thought of her wet and naked in the shower.
And definitelynot the sweet, honeyed scent of her arousal that IknowI smelled when she saw what I had done.
That’s the hardest one to ignore, though. The sense memory of that scent is the reason my cock is still half-hard even though I’m focused on setting my scene.
I carry the beer halfway down the pier, tear open the box, and one by one, pour the contents of the beer cans into the ocean. Then I crunch them up, toss them at my feet.
