Page 13 of Grave Love
His thrust goes deeper than before, ramming against my cervix, nearly tearing a wail out of me. A deep pain ricochets through my stomach, and then I feel it. His cock gushing with come. I try not to moan, but my body clenches and I come noiselessly as his cock shoots his seed into me, a primal groan full of glee leaving his chest as he marks his territory. Filling me up with him.
His cock twitches one last time, and I flinch in response. He pulls out slowly.
I bite my lip.
If he leaves now without either of us speaking, we can pretend like it never happened. I can deny it. Even if he has a camera and is recording the whole thing on film, my face is covered. My hand tattoos are by my sides, out of view. He can’t see me.
The rip of latex snaps through the room.
My jaw drops.
A condom. He’s taking off a condom. The final nail in my coffin.
“Dead girls don’t get pregnant,” he mutters. “But you can never be too sure, can you? Not when they respond like filthy little sluts.”
I don’t move. Neither of us is supposed to be here, and if we both leave separately, we can still pretend like we didn’t know the other one was here.
His boots clunk away, and soon the backdoor to the mortuary clicks shut. I’m alone. Probably. My stomach clenches as I hold my breath, waiting for the confirmation of stretching silence that he’s really gone.
The keyhole jiggles; he locks up after himself.
My chest deflates. It’sover.I get off of the conveyor belt as quickly as I can. I scan the room for my clothes. The side table is empty.
Didn’t I put them there?
I search the room. The darkness invades the crematory, keeping everything in a constant shadow. Not a single thing is out of place.
Did he take my clothes?
I grab an oversized pullover sweater and some jeans out of the lost and found bin, panic swirling in my temples. I take off the corpse’s dress and underwear—the panties wet, the bra soaked with Blaze’s spit—and I get dressed in the spare clothes quickly. I glance at the sprawled gurney in the refrigeration unit and place the body back inside of the cardboard box, shoving the dress and underwear on top of it. I’ll take care of it tomorrow and burn the evidence with the body. Right now, I need to get the hell out of here.
As long as I get out of here without facing him, I can deny anything happened, and I’ll never,everdo this again. Besides, soon it won’t matter. The corpse I took the clothes from—no,borrowedfrom—will be burned tomorrow, and no one will know a thing. Then I just need my grandmother’s prescription refilled. That can’t take more than a month. I’ll swallow them all, and it’ll be fine. And until then, I’ll stay as far away from the gravedigger as possible. It’s not like he needs to come inside of the mortuary. Avoiding him will be easy.
I open the front door, the key in my hand, ready to lock up. I check the side of the building to make sure I’m alone, but when I turn my head, the gravedigger steps around the corner, peering down at me, his presence looming like a storm cloud, threatening to break. My clothes dangle from his fingers like strings of fate. A lifeline he’s cradling. My only chance at survival.
His lips curl in a smile. “Hello, little corpse.”
Chapter7
Ren
Pinpricks trickle across my spine,paralyzing me. I fixate on my clothes in Blaze’s hand, not daring to look him in the eyes. My vision blurs. A dryness swirls in the back of my throat.
This isn’t happening.
“The little corpse is speechless,” Blaze mocks.
“You stole my clothes,” I finally say. Invigorated by those small words, I ball my fists at my side, willing myself to appear brave, when inside I’m shitting myself. This isn’t supposed to happen. We’re not supposed to talk like this. “You stole my clothes, asshole!”
“Might I point out that you stole Ms. Smith’s dress and underwear?” He lifts his shoulders. “I suppose we’re all criminals in some capacity, aren’t we?”
My body tenses in response. I keep my face stoic, the same expression I use with Mrs. Richmond and Denise to pretend like I don’t care about a thing. But I’m freaking the hell out. Everything we just did in the crematory isrealnow, and we can’t pretend like we don’t know each other.
What do I do now?
“Give me back my clothes,” I demand, still gawking at the clumps of fabric.
“No.”
