Page 19 of Pose for Me
Ryell
Dark brown hair.
Trim, fit body.
Naked.
Hard cock jutting skyward.
Fuck-me eyes staring back at me.
Lips plump from my mouth ravaging his.
Legs spread to show a peek of his tight fucking hole.
The sketchI made of Lane from memory is almost perfect.
Almost.
But I want to sketch him while I gaze upon him, watching how he looks while I draw every dip and groove of his body.
I’ve never desired to sketch someone without killing them or to sketch someoneliving. But something about Lane pulls me in.
I didn’t expect him to come home with me so willingly. I was fully prepared to follow him home and kidnap him from his parking garage. Rope, tape, and a paralytic was already packed in my van.
When he told me to take him back to mine, I planned to knock him over the head as soon as he crossed the threshold,toss him in my cell, and taunt him before I killed him, posing his body where his FBI team could find him.
But when I kissed him, when I got a taste of his lips, I wanted more.
I didn’t care about sex but fucking Lane—being rough with his mouth, feeling his ass around my dick and sucking him down while I fucked him—was like nothing I’ve ever had before. The sex was off the fucking charts. I wonder if I’ll be able to do it again.
Probably not. I don’t plan to keep Lane alive long enough to get him back on my dick.
That fucking sucks because Lane was the most perfect lay I’ve ever had.
I’m glad I went through the trouble of disguising myself last night, though Lane almost discovered my wig when I was kissing him against my front door. But the deception was necessary. With Lane now missing, they’ll go to the last place he was seen and start asking questions. The people who saw me will remember a man with gray eyes, brown hair, and a hook nose.
The prosthetic nose was a bitch to apply.
No one will know it was me, a man with husky-blue eyes and blond hair and a straight nose.
Even the ID I showed the bartender was a fake. She should do a better job of checking the pictures, not just the date of birth. Then she would have seen that me and the man on the ID looked nothing alike.
Too bad for Lane. I genuinely enjoyed his company and fucking him was phenomenal.
I watch as he sleeps in the cell, his chest rising and falling evenly. When I dosed him, I used half of what I’d normally would on my victims, so he should come around soon.
Glancing down at the sketch, I trace the lines with my eyes, enjoying Lane’s naked form. I enjoyed dominating him lastnight, making him mine, if just for a few hours. Lane trusted his pleasure to me, and I gave him more than he could handle. I could tell by how quickly he fell asleep after I rolled off him that he’s never been worked over like that. I should have waited to have him one more time before I threw him in the cell.
Oh well, can’t squirt the milk back up a cow’s udders. What’s done is done.
I wait around for about twenty more minutes for Lane to wake up. He’s cautious, his breathing changes imperceptibly as he comes to, though I notice it. He’s probably trying to figure out his surroundings and how he can get out of the situation he’s in. But he’s bound by his right arm and right ankle to the wall, the chains having some give so he can use the toilet that’s in the opposite corner of the cell.
Chuckling, I close the sketch pad and set it beside me, crossing my ankle over my knee. “I know you’re awake, Lane. Let’s not play these games, hm?”
He blows out a long breath, then sits up slowly. His eyes ping-pong around the room, as if to chronicle everything around him. That won’t do him any good; he won’t be leaving this room alive to tell anyone what he sees.
When he swings his eyes over to me, they go flinty. “What is this place?”
