Page 30 of The Silent Night Stalker
Before I can get further into my fantasy, cum coats my hand and creams my pubes. I groan with arousal and irritation that I finished so quickly. It usually takes me a while to come since I don’t have much of a sex drive. But Enzo has clearly cured me of that. Just imagining him standing there naked is enough to do me in.
After I clean up my mess, I glance at the clock to see it’s too late to head over to Enzo’s place. Or is it? No, as much as I want to be with him, he’ll be angry if I wake him up, and I don’t want my face punched again. I’m still bruised and hurt from the last time.
I’ll go over there tomorrow after work.
Chapter 12
Enzo
Myfight’sinthreedays, so I’ve been having to work my ass off. Grieving over Enrique really set me back, but now I’ve gotta stay on top of shit so I don’t upset the boss. If I lose, he’ll be pissed. I haven’t lost yet, but if and when I do, who knows what Alfonzo will do to me. Maybe nothing. He likes me, treats me like family, but he likes anyone who makes him happy.
I park in front of my house, turn off the engine of my car, and climb out, wincing at my sore muscles. I already had a protein shake, but I’ll have to replenish more fluids and have a protein-rich dinner. Then I’ll follow that up with hitting the sack early.
It was a rough one today. Hours of fucking training. I have bruises on my bruises, and my body aches like hell. It’s easy to push aside when you’re running high on adrenaline and endorphins. But now, I feel like I’m fucking eighty years old. Not really, but I’m exhausted.
Hell, I’m so damn tired that I jump out of my skin at the timid ‘hello’ behind me.
“Jesus!” I yelp, grasping my rapidly beating heart. I turn to face the culprit. If it isn’t the serial killer twink. “Sneaking up on me the last time was detrimental to your face.”
Even in the darkness, I can see his eyes grow wide. Constantine takes a step back as if I’d hit him right then and there. The thought crossed my mind, but I wouldn’t.
“What are you doing here, Con?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest and leaning against my car.
A small smile grows broader and broader until it’s stretched across his face and he’s bouncing on the pads of his feet, no longer meek, but coy. Of all the people to crush on me, I’ve got an unhinged twink, bent on making the world a better place through murder. Yay me.
I’m bitching in my head, but I don’t hate him. Strangely, he doesn’t annoy me as much as he should. And honestly, I’m still curious to see how much I can bend him to my will sexually. Memories of the other day, when he came to the gym, still live rent-free in my head.
“I like that,” he says. “I like you calling me ‘Con.’ It makes me feel important or something. No one’s ever given me a nickname before, other than the stupid media.”
I have no idea what pushes me to walk toward him, stand toe-to-toe, and finger the neck of his sweater underneath his coat. “Oh, yeah? What else would you like me to do to you—besides give you nicknames?”
He looks up at me and presses his hands against my chest, not to push me away, but to be tethered to me. Even in the dim lighting of the night, I can see him gulp. “Anything,” he says boldly.
I raise a brow and smirk at him. “You sure about that? I don’t think you understand what ‘anything’ entails…Little Bird.”
“I like that one, too. Give me more names, please.”
I run my fingers through his thick hair before grabbing a fistful of it. Constantine gasps, but he doesn’t try to pull away. “And why do you like nicknames?”
“Anything but Arthur. Anything…”
“What’s your last name?”
“Teasley. I hate that name, too.”
“Arthur Teasley? Yeah, you sound like a writer from the 1800s who writes about the proper etiquette of the upper class.”
I tighten my hold on his hair. “But I asked you a question. Are you sure you understand what ‘anything’ means? Because I have no problem with doinganythingto you.”
He swallows and nods, never taking his eyes off me. “Anything but beat me. I can’t… I can’t take that.”
A surge of guilt hits me, and I let go of his hair. I have to remind myself that he became what he is because of pain and abuse.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask, smoothing the strands back. God, why do I care? Still, I don’t take back the question.
“No. I liked it because you weren’t trying to hurt me. You were trying to be… hot, right? Sexual?”
“Exactly.”
