All Mine by Jesse Joren

Ding-dong-ding...
    A quick push of the
button, and it was done. The doorbell sounded with tasteful chimes
inside the house. While I waited, I glanced at the discreet plaque
posted next to the front door. "The Adairs," it
proclaimed.
    How fucking civilized.
    I could hear the muffled
rhythm of your heels as you came to answer the door. Already I knew
how you were dressed: a sexy pirate wench costume, mostly concealed
under a cloak for the sake of the little
trick-or-treaters.
    The costume party you
planned to attend didn’t start until midnight. My plans for you
were going to start a lot sooner. Under the Death mask, I
smiled.
    You were alone in the
house on this chilly Halloween night. Your husband had driven away
in his oh-so-respectable silver Lexus hours ago, leaving you alone
yet again.
    Shadows had thickened into
night, birthing a steady stream of fairies and cowboys, clowns and
vampires, ghosts and witches. The house was a magnet with its
galaxy of orange lights, yards of gossamer web, the stuffed black
widow spider menacing from its place over the front
door.
    I’d watched you working on
those decorations all afternoon, admiring the way your snug denim
shirt molded to your body as you reached over your head. My heart
thumped each time your jeans hiked up to show the rich curve of
your well-toned ass.
    You put on quite a show,
even if you didn't know it. Maybe you did. There was something
about the way you moved that said you knew you had a hot body, that
there was no crime in a little strutting.
    I knew so much more about
you than just your pretty body. You had a two-latte-a-day habit at
the Starbucks near your office. Caramel swirl, extra shot of
espresso, nutmeg on top. You kept $500 taped under the driver’s
seat of your black Integra for emergencies.
    You wrote steamy stories
and then shredded them -- poorly, by the way -- before stuffing
them into the curbside trash. The aborted erotica was sometimes
accompanied by empty vodka bottles that appeared when you were home
alone too often.
    The trash held a lot less
hot fiction and more of those bottles in the past year. You were
the perfect young couple on the surface, but it was all a careful
façade. Your hubby might call it a fast track to success, but
divorce court was looking more likely in his future.
    Maybe that explained the
flirting that had crept into your daily routine along with the
lattes. Once in a very great while your eyes turned my way, but
usually it was for others.
    I think that was how
tonight really started. I wanted that smile -- and everything that
came with it -- all to myself. Sharing didn’t suit me.
    Tonight you were alone
again, but you wouldn’t be for long. You were going to be mine
alone. This would be a Halloween to remember.
    The evening was winding
down, no trick-or-treaters for the last twenty minutes at least.
The porch light had flicked off a few minutes before as I waited in
the shadows. That told me you didn’t expect anyone else to knock
tonight.
    I waited in the dark,
holding my plastic pumpkin with one gloved hand. The other hand
reached under the heavy folds of my cape to stroke the throbbing
heat that pressed against my lower belly. The smooth leather felt
good against my eager hardness.
    You're going to get one
more trick-or-treater after all.
    The porch light stayed
off, but the door swung open. Sweet relief to be close to you after
so much anticipation. I drank you in.
    Curling black hair tucked
under the red kerchief. Shining green eyes. Sun-kissed skin fading
to cream now that summer was over. The black cloak you’d worn while
passing out candy was draped over the loveseat near the
door.
    The pirate ensemble only
enhanced the lushness of your body. A loosely draped white shirt.
Tight black leather skirt. Black leather boots that came up to your
thighs.
    A dagger was tucked into
the top of your right boot, giving off a mellow gleam that lent it
credibility. It looked real, but I knew it wasn’t. The real thing
was