He was shocked that she didn’t move to cover herself, didn’t have any shame in her nakedness. A change had come over her, and she straightened to her full height on the bed, her muscles tight, a strange smile on her lips. It was like she was both furious and excited at the same time. Her eyes dropped to his hand, to his ‘weapon,’ and he instinctively dropped it, realizing she was on defense, probably thinking he was there to hurt her. He raised his arms. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t answer. I thought you were in danger. I’m sorry.” He ducked his head, pulling his reluctant eyes from her tight body and took a step sideways, toward the door. A sound, like a strangled, but joyous, battle cry erupted from her mouth, and he froze. She launched herself off the bed, her naked body extending, and landed on both feet. Her eyes were bright with pleasure, her mouth curved into what could only be described as a grin. She looked … crazy, and for the first time, he realized that she could be mentally ill. Her eyes were locked on something, not him, and he followed her gaze to his box cutters, which lay on the ground at his feet. He crouched, picking them up, and flipped the blade down, bringing his hand up to put them in his pocket. There was a blur of nudity, and her body collided with his, her hands greedy and reaching, her weight catching him off balance. They fell together, onto the floor, her hand yanking the cutters from his. She fumbled with them briefly, then flipped the blade out, and straddled his body, bringing both hands together above her head, wild joy in her eyes. She brought her hands down together, in one quick motion, the sharp point descending toward his neck.
His hand shot out in defense, his mind sluggish, confused by this clusterfuck of a situation. His strong palm caught the edge of the cutter, the sharp blade slicing his skin. He swore, the pain quickly bringing reality to the situation. Suddenly, his mind was clear, and he backhanded her, the blow knocking her sideways, her hands splaying out, the cutters still tight in one hand. She blinked, her eyes opening. She scrambled to her feet, launching at him again, his feet slipping on the floor as he tried to stand. She was on him, the blade swiping in perfect precision through the air, as he tried to shove her away and get some traction, tried to get off the damn ground. The blade caught his shoulder, slicing the fabric and dipping into his skin, hot pain searing his subconscious for a brief moment. His hand found her arm and he gripped it tightly, holding her in place, her face close to his, panting, eyes intense and full of hatred.
I was furious, my anger mounting as I wrestled with the man. This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened; it didn’t fit the daydreams that I savored like manna from heaven. Last time it had been different. Last time had been easy—my victim distracted, caught in an unprotected moment. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I might suck at killing; my first experience only a deadly fluke. I had always envisioned myself as a killing machine, finely tuned in all things deadly. I had massively overestimated my abilities. The realization devastated me, and in that one, weak moment of self-awareness, he flipped me, straddling my body and throwing the box-cutters, my prize, across the room.
Jeremy exhaled. The weapon was gone, and they stared at each other; his body on top of hers, naked skin between his legs, and her small breasts rising and falling with her panting breaths. She was beautiful, her eyes intelligent and large, her nose slightly imperfect, lips full and parted, high cheekbones framing her face. Dark hair surrounding her like a halo, she was exquisite in her madness. And that’s what he had to remember. She was obviously crazy.
“Get the fuck off of me.” The voice was so familiar; he had cherished it for so long—soft and sweet—even when saying those words.
“Not gonna happen.”
“I will scream bloody fucking murder if you don’t get up, and someone will come. You left the damn door wide open.”
He looked at the door, standing calmly open, the dim hall exposed, the damn box from BathJoyX still sitting innocently outside the transom. He wondered how much time had passed since he had tried the knob. One minute? Two? Five? It felt like a lifetime had passed. He reached forward, pressing harder down on her body, and she squirmed beneath him, glaring at him with eyes of death. His fingers touched the door and he heaved, the door moving from the pressure, swinging softly and then clicking into place.
He grinned down at her, pleased. “What exactly was your plan? To kill me?”
“You entered my home. I have the right to defend myself.”
“That wasn’t defense. That was fucking psychopath behavior. You were one step behind Hannibal Lector with that shit.” He laughed nervously, and fought a battle with his cock, willing it to soften. It ignored him, defiantly taking the other route. Her eyes flickered downward, and a slow smile crossed her face. Shit.
The son-of-a-bitch was hard. If I ever needed official proof that I sucked at killing, this would be it. But maybe this was my ace in the hole. This was my second chance. I moved slightly underneath him, testing my hypothesis. I had had so little experience with live, breathing men. But yes, it twitched, and the skin beneath his cock turned sensitive on me, my body betraying me. I used the rest of myself, those parts still loyal, and lifted slightly, pressing my bare pelvis up against his stiffness, my thighs shaking slightly. I bit my bottom lip, stared into his eyes, and lifted again, closing my eyes in false reverence when my skin rubbed with his. It was almost laughably unfair.