Page 8 of Dead Woman Walking

Quickly, I turn and move away from him. Not many people were around to witness that, and those that were, were high or drunk and didn’t even bat an eye. I felt so unseen. My fake smile slips from my face as I push the women’s door open. The lights cut on, but it is dull. The bathroom looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years.

The taste of vile invades the back of my throat, and I rush into the stall. Vomit rushes from me, throwing up the food and alcohol I had today. It doesn’t stop until my stomach is empty, and then I flush.

I can still tastehimon my mouth, making me gag again. Moving out of the stall, I run the sink water before splashing it on my mouth. Not even caring what kind of diseases the water could give me.

His hands… His mouth… His taste…

My head spins as I look at my eyes in the mirror. Staring, I replay what happened in my head over and over. Feeling his hands on my ass and chest and his mouth against mine.

I want to vomit again, but I am empty.

Static fills my veins, and my brain feels fuzzy with a type of numbness that feels like an ice bath. For a slight moment, I feel absolutely nothing.

Until something cold touches the back of my thigh, right under my dress.

Jolting, my eyes pry from my reflection up to see the Brahms’ masked guy behind me, eyes locked onto me. Fear rushes down my spine like an ice cube.

He is on top of me as soon as I twist to look behind. His large body pins me against the sink.

My lips part as my fingers grip the edge of the sink. Fear has me shaking like a leaf.

Leaning down, his warm, large hands explore up my thighs, pushing up my dress to my hips. His thick jet-black hair brushes my face. Inhaling, I smell his musky citrus scent. Somehow it fuels a fire I didn’t know was burning. My hand reaches out, and I wrap it around his hard bicep as my head spins.

Brahms is tall, at least six-three. He doesn’t look strong, but he feels it. Slowly, I realize how wide his shoulders really are, but the way they sag makes them look shorter.

I should feel ashamed, like how Oliver made me feel. I should push him away and react badly. He is touching me without permission, yet I let his hands grip my waist and lift me onto the sink.

Then his hands slide up from my hips, making my breath slow down. My back arches as his palm runs over my budding nipple. My core pulses and my hips push right against his. His other hand circles and takes a handful of breasts, just like Oliver did.

But this time, I don’t feel dirty. Heat is blazing in between my thighs and my skin feels hot. He has sparked desires in me I didn’t know I had.

His dark eyes behind the mask drop over my shivering and arching body before meeting my gaze again. The way the corners of his eyes squint makes me realize he was smirking at my reaction.

Maybe he doesn’t get too many harmless, helpless girls that don’t run.

I swallow as he leans down a bit. His eyes watching me, tempting me to go further. “Are you—”

He shifts, and the knife tip is pressed to my throat to shut me up. It is cold, and though I can’t see it, I can tell it is long. My eyes never move from his. He slides the sharp blade over my skin downwards, and I am almost scared he will cut Blair’s dress by how much pressure he puts into it.

My breath picks up as he goes lower… and lower until his knife runs over my inner thigh. I look down, thighs spreading for him.

Oliver kissed me and touched me, and I puked, but Brahms… I want his touch. Brahms shows his true sick colors, while Oliver hides them with sex and drugs.

My eyes bounce to the door. Knowing Oliver’s on the other side of it, waiting for me.

Brahms’ long finger cups my chin and pulls my eyes back to him. He shakes his head slightly, and somehow, I understand that he has someonedistractingOliver from coming in.

A slight ripping of thread fills my ears, and my eyes drop to the noise. He is using the tip of the knife to cut each thread of my fishnets one by one. But then he scoops a bit too low and nicks my inner thigh.

I hiss, jolting.

Then the enormous man drops to his knees before me. He leans in, using his knife tip to lift the bottom of his mask. A long tongue flicks from under the mask, running across the dripping blood on my thigh.

A moan escapes me, making me push my hips out. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does. He looks up at me.

“Please,” I beg.I want his long tongue to be buried inside of me.

He shakes his head, standing.

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