pulsing deep inside her, producing heat under her skin. She tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable spot and incapable of holding still. The covers became entirely too hot around her that eventually she kicked them off.
She sat up and rubbed her face in the dark. The towel came undone from her hair that now hung damp around her shoulders, cool at first but then it too became hot. The towel around her middle hung limp about her hips and she threw that away too.
She breathed deeply, gasping occasionally for air while her breasts shivered and heaved, her core swelling and pulsing. He wouldn’t get out of her head, only this time it wasn't the look of betrayal she was seeing, or even the kisses he forced on her, but now she saw him pinning her to the floor, kissing her neck while scraping his pointed fangs along her flesh, massaging the breasts that wouldn't stop shaking.
Dammit those were her hands. She pulled them away and shoved them into her hair instead, then gasped. Where was this fantasy coming from? Where was this sensation coming from?
When Fantasy Kyle settled between her spread legs and removed her panties she fell back on her pillows.
Everything turned black.
***
Kyle gripped his hair with both hands, his right leg jumping up and down beneath the table as he tried to pay attention to the questions being asked. But he couldn't get the image of Jackie out of his mind.
He should be furious with her for what she did. He was furious. But that didn't stop the amazing images from invading his mind. He began to sweat with the effort it took to keep his body from reacting to them.
The last thing he needed was to become aroused while being questioned about murder. What the Hell was wrong with him?
Finally, just as his little mind adventures began heating up, even more so than he thought was possible, one of the detectives tossed some pictures under his nose. The fantasy vanished and his jumping leg stilled.
Kyle looked through them without lifting them from the table. They were horrifyingly real images of a dead woman lying in her own blood. "This is the girl you think I killed?"
"Didn't you?"
Kyle scowled, but knew better than to show any other emotion or anger that could rile the detective up. Detectives didn't care if the suspect became insulted during the questioning process, they had a job to find a killer and a little annoyance on the suspect’s part was the least of their problems.
"No." Kyle said flatly.
The detective, Jason Miller, leaned on the other side of the table with his fists knuckle down on the metal surface before taking a seat in the chair where he'd hung his jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows and his weapon in its brown leather holster was exposed. The man was taller than Kyle by at least two inches, older by at least three years—which Kyle figured made him thirty-five—shaved his head bald and sported a stylish dark brown goatee.
There was a long two-way mirror to Kyle's left, and he wondered who else was listening in on this conversation. How close were the legal systems from the world he knew to the world he'd stumbled in? What were his rights? They certainly sounded the same when he was being read them while having handcuffs slapped on his wrists. No one mentioned anything about a lawyer, but surely there was more to it than that.
"Her name is Margaret Clayton, a young plastic surgeon. Tell me what you see," he said, waving towards the pictures.
Kyle saw a dead woman with her eyes wide open, dressed as if she was expected to make an appearance at a popular club. Short skirt, high heels, and enough jewelry to make her sparkle even in death. Her neck was twisted awkwardly and large chunks were ripped from both sides of it. Other pictures showed similar rips along her legs, arms, and one on her hip, right through the shiny fabric she wore.
This time he had trouble keeping the anger from his voice. "You think I did this?"
Detective Miller
She sat up and rubbed her face in the dark. The towel came undone from her hair that now hung damp around her shoulders, cool at first but then it too became hot. The towel around her middle hung limp about her hips and she threw that away too.
She breathed deeply, gasping occasionally for air while her breasts shivered and heaved, her core swelling and pulsing. He wouldn’t get out of her head, only this time it wasn't the look of betrayal she was seeing, or even the kisses he forced on her, but now she saw him pinning her to the floor, kissing her neck while scraping his pointed fangs along her flesh, massaging the breasts that wouldn't stop shaking.
Dammit those were her hands. She pulled them away and shoved them into her hair instead, then gasped. Where was this fantasy coming from? Where was this sensation coming from?
When Fantasy Kyle settled between her spread legs and removed her panties she fell back on her pillows.
Everything turned black.
***
Kyle gripped his hair with both hands, his right leg jumping up and down beneath the table as he tried to pay attention to the questions being asked. But he couldn't get the image of Jackie out of his mind.
He should be furious with her for what she did. He was furious. But that didn't stop the amazing images from invading his mind. He began to sweat with the effort it took to keep his body from reacting to them.
The last thing he needed was to become aroused while being questioned about murder. What the Hell was wrong with him?
Finally, just as his little mind adventures began heating up, even more so than he thought was possible, one of the detectives tossed some pictures under his nose. The fantasy vanished and his jumping leg stilled.
Kyle looked through them without lifting them from the table. They were horrifyingly real images of a dead woman lying in her own blood. "This is the girl you think I killed?"
"Didn't you?"
Kyle scowled, but knew better than to show any other emotion or anger that could rile the detective up. Detectives didn't care if the suspect became insulted during the questioning process, they had a job to find a killer and a little annoyance on the suspect’s part was the least of their problems.
"No." Kyle said flatly.
The detective, Jason Miller, leaned on the other side of the table with his fists knuckle down on the metal surface before taking a seat in the chair where he'd hung his jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows and his weapon in its brown leather holster was exposed. The man was taller than Kyle by at least two inches, older by at least three years—which Kyle figured made him thirty-five—shaved his head bald and sported a stylish dark brown goatee.
There was a long two-way mirror to Kyle's left, and he wondered who else was listening in on this conversation. How close were the legal systems from the world he knew to the world he'd stumbled in? What were his rights? They certainly sounded the same when he was being read them while having handcuffs slapped on his wrists. No one mentioned anything about a lawyer, but surely there was more to it than that.
"Her name is Margaret Clayton, a young plastic surgeon. Tell me what you see," he said, waving towards the pictures.
Kyle saw a dead woman with her eyes wide open, dressed as if she was expected to make an appearance at a popular club. Short skirt, high heels, and enough jewelry to make her sparkle even in death. Her neck was twisted awkwardly and large chunks were ripped from both sides of it. Other pictures showed similar rips along her legs, arms, and one on her hip, right through the shiny fabric she wore.
This time he had trouble keeping the anger from his voice. "You think I did this?"
Detective Miller
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