“You have to use….” I stopped when I heard the plastic rip. I peered over my shoulder and saw him rolling on a condom.
He glanced up at me, brows raised. “I’ll always look out for your best interests, London.”
He moved in and I gasped when his cock slid back and forth through my wetness. He kept one hand on my neck, a firm grip with strands of my hair wrapped around his hand.
“I’m going to fuck you. And I want to hear you scream when you come and I won’t stop until you do.” He leaned over me. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt his breath against my ear as he said, “And I can fuck you for a very long time.”
The weight of his body left me, but not his hips as he placed his cock at my entrance. I expected him to thrust hard inside me, but it was agonizingly slow, inch by inch, as if he wanted to savor the first time his cock slid inside me.
My grip on the counter intensified and I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. It was frustrating the way he did it so slowly and yet it was sensual, too. His hand left my neck and slid down my back across to my hip where he tightened his hold. He was deep inside me and hadn’t moved. It gave me a minute to adjust to his size and yet, at the same time, I was sparking with need. A need so intense that I pushed back against him.
“Not yet.” He ground his hips against me in a circular motion, his cock buried deep.
“Yes, yet,” I said.
He chuckled and put his other hand on my hip. His fingers dug into my flesh painfully, perhaps a warning as to what was to come.
And it was.
He pulled out then thrust back into me, hard. Once. He stopped and I waited for him to do it again, but instead, he rotated his hips while sunk deep, his hands keeping me in place.
“Fuck, you feel good.” He glided out then shoved inside again. My fingers curled around the edge of the island kept me in place as he thrust.
In. Out. Hard. Slow. Gentle. Never knowing what was next until my body screamed for him to just fuck me. I throbbed. Pulsed. But when I moaned, that was when his hand came between me and the counter and he played with my clit.
“Oh, God,” I panted. “Kai.”
He groaned and thrust faster, harder to match his finger flicking back and forth. My body trembled and shook until it reached the pinnacle.
Then my body tensed.
Clenched.
Quivered.
And I screamed as he made me come apart. Waves of pleasure shot through me.
I released the edge of the counter and my body rubbed back and forth on the hard smooth surface as he continued to thrust inside my sated body until he groaned, shoving hard into me one last time.
He stopped.
Everything stopped.
I lay silent and still, his hands no longer holding my hips, only his pelvis against my ass and his cock jerked a few times as it throbbed deep inside me.
He pulled out and I heard the roll of the condom as he took it off. Then his footsteps before the cupboard opened and the bin lid opened and closed.
I straightened and went to grab my boxers, but remembered he’d thrown them out. I wanted to dart for the cover of the washroom, but pride wouldn’t let me. I wasn’t running from my own choices. I never had and I wasn’t starting now.
I’d fucked him.
This was my deal.
I made that choice.
“Go shower, London.” He leaned up against the counter, his jeans zipped but the top button undone. His shirt was rumpled, but he still looked like he could walk out the door and attend an opera.
I reached for the dish cloth hanging over the tap to clean up the orange juice, but his hand latched onto my wrist. “Do what I tell you.”
My spine stiffened and I was about to tell him to go fuck himself when he gently eased the dish cloth from my hand. “Are you going to be here… after?”
His eyes locked on mine and they were cold, unlike anything I’d seen in him before. Shivers raced through me and my stomach dropped. The fear that had been extinguished by the lust came alive again.
Those piercing green eyes were the ones his victims witnessed before he… killed? Tortured? I didn’t know. Maybe both. Probably both.
Jesus, I’d had sex with a killer.
His brows rose as if he knew exactly what was racing through my mind.
I was going to be sick. I spun around, ran into the washroom and slammed the door.
HE WAS GONE by the time I came out of the shower. The orange juice had been cleaned up and my washing machine was running. I walked over to the laundry closet and opened the doors. My green sheets from my bed were covered in suds, swishing back and forth in the circular window.
Why would he wash my sheets? I glanced over my shoulder at my bed and saw the spare white sheets now perfectly fitted onto the mattress. He had even neatly folded down the duvet on the side of the bed I always slept on.
I could somewhat understand why he’d put the sheets in the wash if we’d had sex on the bed, but we didn’t. He’d obviously gone through my stuff to find the extra ones, then took his time fluffing up the pillows and tucking in the sheets.
I noticed the noise from the city streets was gone and realized he’d closed my bedroom window. I always slept with it open. I had since the fire.
I remembered the panic of yanking up on the window that night and it wouldn’t budge. I struggled and struggled until I collapsed on my knees as the lack of oxygen became suffocating. With the hallway engulfed in flames there’d been no other way out. I’d crawled across the floor to my desk chair thinking I could use it to smash through the glass.