desire and fear—I can tell.
After all, I’m a guy she likes. She is attracted to me.
It’s almost too easy.
She is so delicate, so beautifully unaware. Her innocence is driving me mad with lust. It has been far too long since I wanted a woman as much as I want her right now. The fact that she is my only living witness only increases the appeal she has for me. She may look and act innocent as fuck, but there is a certain danger to her.
So fucking delicious.
If it were up to me, I’d grab her by that mass of hair, tilt her head back and get a taste of those sweet, pouty lips. She is wearing lipstick that is too dark for her complexion, and I’m pretty sure that today is the first time she’s ever worn it. It looks misplaced on her. I would love to see it violently smeared across her pale face.
She is talking to me, nervously blabbering cute little nonsense, but I am hardly listening, nodding and smiling at the right places.
In my mind, I am going through all kinds of scenarios that would make it possible for me to have her tonight.
Have her and eliminate her.
While her attraction to me is making it easy to get her close to me and take her away to a secluded place, I cannot risk anyone seeing us leave together.
If I were to go through with this, she would be dead by tomorrow, freshly fucked and my face the last one she saw before closing her eyes forever. It would be ideal.
Ideal, if the circumstances were any different. Already, too many people have seen us talking. And even if it weren’t for them, her friend knows that she has been talking to me. Everyone here knows my name, thanks to that damn laudatory speech.
I’m screwed.
I notice that her voice has risen at the end of her last sentence, suggesting that she has asked me a question. The way she is looking up at me now underlines that assumption.
“Come again?” I say, trying not to sound too much out of it.
“Another drink?” She repeats her question. “I’m going to get myself a mimosa—do you want another, too?”
I shake my head. “No mimosa for me.”
She furls her eyebrows in question, casting a quick glance at the almost empty glass in my hands.
“Are you sure,” she says.
“I am,” I reply. “But let me get you one.”
She makes a move to object, but before she can, I turn around and head for the bar. I’m not going to send a girl off to get her own drink, what kind of move would that be. Killer or not—I know what is to be expected of a gentleman.
I fetch a mimosa for her and a glass of water for myself.
“Already had enough for tonight,” I excuse myself as I come back to her and hand her the mimosa. It’s always better to say that I’ve had my share instead of telling people that I don’t drink. Non-drinkers are suspicious.
She casts me a look of insecurity when she takes the glass out of my hand, but doesn’t say anything about it. We clink glasses, despite me just having a plain water.
I’m not sure what to do. She has me trapped. I thought there was no way that I would find the girl who witnessed my last kill, and now she is standing right in front of me, awkwardly attempting to flirt with me—and looking awfully enticing while she does. The longer she is within my close proximity, the more I want her. Already, I have to restrain myself from pulling her in close, claiming her with a kiss that would make her shiver and blush even more.
I found my last and only living witness, she is right within reach, it would be so easy to eliminate her.
At the same time, it wouldn’t.
What a fucking dilemma.
Usually, I am not one to postpone decisions, but with this one, I just might have to. I cannot decide on the spot what to do with her. But I know I want to have a taste of her. It’s a dangerous game, but one that I’m willing to play. If she hasn’t recognized me now, there is a good chance she never will, even though I cannot be a hundred percent sure of it.
Either way, there is something oddly appealing
After all, I’m a guy she likes. She is attracted to me.
It’s almost too easy.
She is so delicate, so beautifully unaware. Her innocence is driving me mad with lust. It has been far too long since I wanted a woman as much as I want her right now. The fact that she is my only living witness only increases the appeal she has for me. She may look and act innocent as fuck, but there is a certain danger to her.
So fucking delicious.
If it were up to me, I’d grab her by that mass of hair, tilt her head back and get a taste of those sweet, pouty lips. She is wearing lipstick that is too dark for her complexion, and I’m pretty sure that today is the first time she’s ever worn it. It looks misplaced on her. I would love to see it violently smeared across her pale face.
She is talking to me, nervously blabbering cute little nonsense, but I am hardly listening, nodding and smiling at the right places.
In my mind, I am going through all kinds of scenarios that would make it possible for me to have her tonight.
Have her and eliminate her.
While her attraction to me is making it easy to get her close to me and take her away to a secluded place, I cannot risk anyone seeing us leave together.
If I were to go through with this, she would be dead by tomorrow, freshly fucked and my face the last one she saw before closing her eyes forever. It would be ideal.
Ideal, if the circumstances were any different. Already, too many people have seen us talking. And even if it weren’t for them, her friend knows that she has been talking to me. Everyone here knows my name, thanks to that damn laudatory speech.
I’m screwed.
I notice that her voice has risen at the end of her last sentence, suggesting that she has asked me a question. The way she is looking up at me now underlines that assumption.
“Come again?” I say, trying not to sound too much out of it.
“Another drink?” She repeats her question. “I’m going to get myself a mimosa—do you want another, too?”
I shake my head. “No mimosa for me.”
She furls her eyebrows in question, casting a quick glance at the almost empty glass in my hands.
“Are you sure,” she says.
“I am,” I reply. “But let me get you one.”
She makes a move to object, but before she can, I turn around and head for the bar. I’m not going to send a girl off to get her own drink, what kind of move would that be. Killer or not—I know what is to be expected of a gentleman.
I fetch a mimosa for her and a glass of water for myself.
“Already had enough for tonight,” I excuse myself as I come back to her and hand her the mimosa. It’s always better to say that I’ve had my share instead of telling people that I don’t drink. Non-drinkers are suspicious.
She casts me a look of insecurity when she takes the glass out of my hand, but doesn’t say anything about it. We clink glasses, despite me just having a plain water.
I’m not sure what to do. She has me trapped. I thought there was no way that I would find the girl who witnessed my last kill, and now she is standing right in front of me, awkwardly attempting to flirt with me—and looking awfully enticing while she does. The longer she is within my close proximity, the more I want her. Already, I have to restrain myself from pulling her in close, claiming her with a kiss that would make her shiver and blush even more.
I found my last and only living witness, she is right within reach, it would be so easy to eliminate her.
At the same time, it wouldn’t.
What a fucking dilemma.
Usually, I am not one to postpone decisions, but with this one, I just might have to. I cannot decide on the spot what to do with her. But I know I want to have a taste of her. It’s a dangerous game, but one that I’m willing to play. If she hasn’t recognized me now, there is a good chance she never will, even though I cannot be a hundred percent sure of it.
Either way, there is something oddly appealing
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