Page 11 of Creep
“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” I say, but when he turns and bright light licks his tattooed arm, I stall at the sight of a phrase I have the misfortune of knowing all too well. “Motorcycle Club. Are you a Hell’s Butcher?” I ask, trying not to let my tone betray how nervous this makes me. Because if he is Domino’s friend, then I might be in more trouble than it originally seemed.
His gaze whips to me, burning like two hate-stained coals, and he scowls, once again revealing his canines. Were this a young adult novel, I would soon find out he’s a vampire. “Hell no.” He pulls up the sleeve and comes closer. “You’ll end up seeing it anyway.”
The artwork on his skin depicts a menacing vulture perched on a skull and surrounded by lightning bolts, some of which resemble knives. The writing below it reads,Vulture Hollow MC.
I don’t know that much about biker gangs, but even I heard of a massive shootout between the Vultures and the Hell’s Butcherslast year. Some gang war resulting in several dead. It all took place in the village of Vulture Hollow, a small settlement in the woods run by the bikers. Could we be close to that place? Or does Creep live somewhere separate from his buddies?
The air trapped in my lungs finally escapes, and I nod, tracing the bird with the top of my finger. Could the enemy of my enemy be my friend? Creep twitches, like a horse trying to get a fly off its skin, but I keep touching, because I know that deep down he wants it, and the more he likes my company, the higher the probability that I’ll leave this cavern alive.
“Good,” I say with a smile and wink before taking my top off. “Always had a bit of a thing for bad boys.” Not even a lie.
Creep stares straight at my nipples as he silently passes me the T-shirt. It smells fresh, like soap and… lemon? I put it against my face. He’s got no washing machine here, but he clearly cares enough to get his stuff laundered.
I can’t help it, I fill the silence because it’s getting awkward. “It’s actually quite warm here. If I were you, I’d probably sleep naked.”
He stills, then cocks his head. I don’t know if I’m scared or excited. Can both be true at the same time? Just as I’m about to babble on, he clears his throat.
“I sleep… under there,” Creep says and kneels by the bed without looking into my eyes.
“What?” I ask, but air is stuck in my throat when he lies down on the carpet, and then rolls under the bed, as if he’s done it hundreds of times.
A hot shudder jolts down my back, all the way between my buttocks, and I squeeze my thighs together, taking a deep breath to calm down in the face of this strange situation. “That’s what you were doing under my bed? Taking a nap?” I chuckle, but we both know he listened as I pleasured myself, maybe even saw my dildo after it dropped to the floor.
And right after, he licked my fingers.
Is that his kink? So fucking odd, but who am I to judge? Whatever keeps him not-murdering me is good in my book.
“Y-yes,” he says and his hand slides out from under the bed to turn off the lamp. Even that is strange, but when the room sinks in complete darkness, I pull his T-shirt over my head. It’s soft, and boxy, and way too big.
I love it.
“So… whyundera bed? Why not just on the floor, if that’s your thing?” I continue, just to hear his voice as I move under the comforter, the silence deafening in the dark. The stress of stabbing him, of being lost in the tunnels, pumped so much adrenaline into my veins I couldn’t sleep if I tried.
He takes forever to answer, but I can be patient when I want to be.
“You weren’t supposed to find out.”
“But why though?”
Silence stretches again, and I wish I knew what’s going through his head. Is he ashamed to admit it’s a kink? He must know it’s wrong to break into people’s houses. And unlike Domino, he’s not said the eye-rolly ‘I’m not gay’, so I don’t think that’s the problem.
“Because this is where monsters sleep.”
All right, out of the many things he could have said, this is the weirdest one by far, and for a moment, sadness settles deep in my chest. “You’re not a monster. A monster wouldn’t have saved me.”
Silence takes hold once more, and I’m guessing that will be a pattern with him. “Goodnight, Angel,” he says, and there’s a softness to it that makes me melt a little under the covers. This has to be the first time in my life when a guy I’m pretty confident has the hots for meisn’ttrying to get into my pants at the first opportunity.
I’m not sure what to do with that.
Am I not tempting enough? Is he still angry over me running away and stabbing him, and that’s why he refuses to touch me? I shouldn’t be offended. But I am.
My fingers tighten on the fabric of his T-shirt, but while the bed is comfortable, the fact that I know he’s under me is fucking with my head.
Because why? Does he listen to my breathing? Is he waiting until I’m fast asleep, so he can crawl out andsmell me?
I imagine him staring at the mattress above, maybe even touching it with his fingertips as if it were my skin, and as my thoughts drift to his big, veiny hands, the sturdy chest, and the gentleness with which he led me around even on the way here, my cock starts to harden.
Hardly the first time I‘ve gotten an erection at the wrong time. It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but all I can think of is him listening to me masturbate back home.That, he brought upon himself. And maybe he enjoyed it?
