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Trigger Warnings:
This is a very dark romance with a killer twist. Specifically, this is a psychological thriller, erotic horror, and not for the faint of heart. Here you will find violence, gore, and sexual scenes of a highly graphic nature. Trigger warnings include blood, death, murder, dubcon, bondage, and knife and gunplay. The ending promises to be darkly poetic and not wrapped up in a sweet HEA bow.
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Blurb
He stalks her to save her. But can he save her from himself?
There is a serial killer on the loose, and he's hunting Helena.
She’s in denial and won’t admit it. That’s where I come in.
Helena might accuse me of being the one haunting her steps. The possessive, on-and-off-again ex who could perhaps have any woman but still chooses her. She takes my loyalty for granted.
But when she gets hot and wet for me, and I get lost in the mind-blowing sensations of possessing her… I forgive her.
Deep down, she knows that she's mine and only mine. I would kill to keep her.
That will never change.
DANTE
My cigar flickers in the dark as I turn on the three workstation monitors, and I’m thinking about the sweet scent of Helena’s breath, her silken skin under my fingertips, and those full, sumptuous thighs that hide her strawberry-tasting pussy. But when my current research flashes onto the screens, and I click on the police drawing of a potential murder suspect, my erection fades. He's familiar, and I don't like the reason why: Helena has a type.
Like so many other things, she denies this. She grew up in a wealthy little suburban bubble in Utah and still floats through life believing that things are mostly okay. I know otherwise.
Our little neck of the woods is a perilous place for reasons.
And she does have a type.
Take this guy in the latest police sketch—this description of the so-called “Black Valley serial killer” resembles her stalker. Am I the only one who has made the connection between the two? Yes, because I’m the only one who knows she has a stalker.
After “meeting” said stalker on a dating app, she agreed to go on a date. He checked all the boxes. According to his profile, he's financially well off, over six feet, athletic, dark hair, blue eyes, a strong jaw, and a cocky mouth that makes me want to punch his teeth through the back of his thick skull.
Yeah, the dirty bastard fucking looks like me. Helena has a type, alright.
The thought digs so deep under my skin that my jaw aches from clenching as I peruse images of the BV Killers’ latest “work.” He’s different than a typical serial killer. He doesn’t merely target one gender or young people. He is both brutal and precise.
Investigators can’t figure out why he kills who he kills; they only know that he’s good at it. Meticulous, careful, and intelligently eccentric. It’s what connects the various murders to him that leads investigators to think he has experience as a mortician. After suffocating his victims to death, he uses a scalpel to make small incisions near the collarbone, the carotid artery, and the internal jugular vein. This is where he puts the tubes he uses to drain the organs.
After that, the art begins. By the time he's done with the dead, their skin takes on a rosy appearance, and their life-like corpses are ready for the various artistic scenes he puts them, always to the shock of a hiker or jogger or a pair of lovers having sex in the Black Valley woods.
They stumble onto something uncanny and surreal that seems fit for a modern art museum. Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Little Red Riding Hood. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. The best was the man and woman dressed up like Hansel and Gretel because they were posed in the costumes they’d worn that night to a kinky party. The last time people saw them, they had gotten into a nasty coke-induced fight and left scratches and bruises all over each other. But when they were later found, there was no trace of their domestic abuse. They looked better dead.
But they appeared life-like, and the sex act they were caught in--his fully hard cock seated inside her plump ass—is frozen in time amidst the woodland shadows. Someone was overheard commenting that the two of them seemed happier without a pulse.
So, the killer fancies himself a fucking artist. He is so full of himself it both amuses and enrages me. The burning question is: Is the killer an egomaniacal psychopath with a god-complex who believes himself to have a higher purpose, or does he just enjoy hating life and putting an end to it?
Regardless of what is going on in his complex, abnormal brain, he is now hunting my Helena. If only she would be a good girl and listen, I wouldn't have to take certain measures.
I reach into the large drawer at the bottom of my desk and pull out the new black leather collar I bought for her, with the neck-to-wrist restraints. A leather strap hangs from the collar down the spine of the back, and a chain connects the wrists. She is going to look fucking beautiful wearing this.
HELENA
My interview with the murder witness, Tish Gladys, is at 10 a.m., and I’m running late. After flat ironing my red hair, I glance one last time in the mirror. The little bags under my green eyes seem to be becoming a permanent thing. I’m twenty-eight years old—is this normal? Should I already have forever bags? Mom says I should get a “Bleph.” She says it with a tone as if I should stop complaining and be proactive. She doesn’t believe in aging gracefully.
“Bleph is short for blephar-oplasty aka eyelid surgery,” she explained. She’s had both her upper and lower lids done. "A basic in-and-out procedure, darling." She loves going under the laser-assisted scalpel, but the thought of it makes me jittery.
I'm aware of the irony. Investigating crime cases doesn't make me cringe, but a doctor's office does.
She always said I’m a weird nut. I was afraid to do normal things, like go to a school dance or speak in front of a group at a birthday party, but on the other hand, I liked a certain kind of danger. I would climb high up in trees, sometimes falling and getting stitches, and I would race mean bully boys on my pink dirt bike, even though I knew they’d beat me up if I won. She didn’t know that I had a mad crush on one of those bullies. The first to pummel me to the ground was also the first to kiss me. He didn't exacty ask permission. But he was confident and careful, so it was not the typical awkwardly disgusting first kiss you hear about. After that fleetingly intimate moment, he took it upon himself to protect me from the other boys, even if I wouldn't admit I could use his help.
Gregory Taylor. He was gorgeous. Tall, athletic, dark-haired, with ocean eyes and a light smattering of freckles. He wasn't a dumb jock. He was weird and arty and interesting. His family was from Scotland, and I adored his accent and the permanent smirk on his handsome face. He was a bad-boy alpha-hole in training, and I couldn’t get enough.
I'll admit, Mom isn’t exactly wrong about me. I'm afraid of things I should be good at by now. Public speaking, marriage and surgery. Yet, I grew up to become a hunter of sorts.
“How do you stomach it, Helly?” she often asks. I know that the idea of her daughter covering crime scenes makes her skin crawl. She wonders where she went wrong with me. I tell her that I’m part of something important, that I’m helping justice be served.
“But is it worth the risk? It doesn’t pay enough,” she’ll counter.
There is no convincing her.
I exit the bathroom and check the time. Shit. Gotta go.
It’s dark and sprinkling outside my house. Spring in Missouri can be tornadic--tornado alley speak for likely to cause a spinner--so I grab my raincoat with a sigh, hoping for not-killer weather. I sling my large Louis Vuitton tote over my shoulder when the cat spouts off a demanding, elongated meow: "The hell you thinking not feeding me before you go? Thought I had you trained, woman."
Obediently, I hurry to the kitchen, and you’d think he’d be pacing near the food bowls with his tail in the air, but that requires too much effort. Puma, my big black Bombay with an ornery disposition, is leaning against the wall, crouched upright over his fat with his lower belly exposed. This is his way of sitting upright. He’s shaped like a gaming chair, gently rocking in a half-moon shape while he licks his arm.
“Not like you need calories,” I say hurtfully, but he’s unphased. And what do you know? The little bastard’s food bowl is over half full, and he has plenty of water. He’s just keeping me in check, planning ahead in case I have another late night and he runs low. I fill the bowl until it’s mounding and then pat him on the head before heading off.
Luckily, Tish’s house isn’t too far. She lives just at the edge of the Black River Forest, where the killer staged his latest crime scene, fashioned after Hansel and Gretel. The “Black Valley Killer, “Fairy Tale Killer,” or the “Beast of the Black Forest.” I gave him that last moniker, used it on my true crime blog, and it stuck in the press.
Yep, he’s a real mother-fucking work of art.
I glance at my beeping phone with a sigh. It’s Dante Mordenson. With a name like that, you’d expect him to be an arrogant prick. Maybe that’s why I keep going back to him. It isn’t just my mother and my best friend, Jen, who thinks I should get another job. It’s Dante.
He says I’m in more danger than I realize. But I won’t listen. “I’m done with you. Just shut up and fuck me, Dante,” was the last thing I said to him before we broke up. He slapped me, choked me, kissed me, fucked me up against the wall. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized how many bruises I’d acquired during that final love-hate session.
Some things never change.
I grew up in a place where everybody strives for perfection, where being a tomboy with an endless array of cuts and bruises on my skin served as rebellion.
I guess Dante is my ultimate rebellion.
He says this case is risky, but Jen thinks Dante's my greatest risk and that I should consider a restraining order. Proof that not even my best friend understands me fully. Dante is my bad medicine, and he’s made a secret addict out of me. But at least I have my work to keep me busy.
I can resist Mr. Mordenson if I choose.
DANTE
When my police scanner goes quiet, it’s an indication of an impending big event, the silence before the storm. Tonight, there is a town festival, and like a vortex, it will suck the majority of law enforcement within range of its sphere.
Even though the stupid and petty criminals are more likely to be caught tonight, they will gravitate toward the crowds because they can’t resist the idea of hiding unseen amongst the chaos.
The smarter predator will take the opportunity to strike outside the sphere. There will be fewer people, but the odds of experiencing a merciless god's greatly anticipated adrenaline rush are better without spying eyes.
As it were, when the focus of the town draws inward, Helena can be found outside the periphery working on her recent case because that is what she does. She doesn’t know I know this, but her best friend Jennifer tried to convince her to take the night off and hit the festival. Silly Jennifer, Helena doesn’t like chaos. She prefers the eerie calm of a crime scene.
I watch her through the binoculars as she carefully navigates the outer rim of police tape that’s stretched between trees in the dense grove near the chosen location of the latest in a series of macabre installation art. The killings are becoming legendary.
Like an addict, Helena can't resist getting closer; this time, she’s out here all alone.
No forensics team or fellow journalists to protect her. No rotting body bits or remnants of blood splatter to analyze. Only flattened leaves where dead cold victims posed unwittingly for cameras.
She’s taking a risk; he could be out here. Everybody knows that killers often return to their crime scenes.
But Helena must quench her curiosity. What did they miss? What can she find or learn? Anything?
I bet this has something to do with that witness she interviewed earlier today. Tish Gladys, that nosey bitch who works at the truck stop convenience store. I hear she’s the one to talk to if a trucker is in need of “companionship” in the overhead bed of his truck. Tish, the truck stop Madame, which has a better ring to it than pimp.
I wonder what she told Helena that got her out here for the second time today. The expression on her face looks remarkably peaceful. She’s in the zone and thinks that only squirrels, maybe a deer, watch her between hulking oaks.
But it seems that no matter how hard she tries, Helena is never truly rid of human company. Even now, as my green jeep blends in beneath a low canopy.
I got here first and have made no sound.
She looks over both shoulders before ducking under the tape. Naughty, naughty lady, going where she’s not supposed to go. With a smirk on my lips, I visually trace her curves.
Her outfit is so predictable. She’s a creature of habit, like me. When she’s out in the field, and it is warm outside, she always dons a fitted, sleeveless collared shirt—she has a dozen of these country club tops. This one is dark green like her eyes, and she has on faded skinny jeans, hugging her thick thighs and heart-shaped ass. Grey athletic shoes on her feet.
She turns away, bending slightly, and I study the light brown freckles on the back of her arms, which mimic the ones on her cheeks, the small of her back, and the one on the sweet little hood of her clit. That one is a darker shade than the others. A perfectly round dot, like a button. Push before entering.
She lifts her head, looking up at something. Even the way she’s wearing her long red hair is risky. She has it tied into a neat ponytail—a teasing handle beckoning a potential captor to take possession of her head.
No matter how many times I’ve gripped a fistful of her hair in hand while fucking her, she still has an overly sensitive scalp.
“Not the hair,” she’ll whine. It didn’t stop me then, and it won’t stop me now.
I step from the vehicle, shutting the door as quietly as possible before stealthily moving from the underbrush to the beaten-down deer trail that winds through the tree stands.
Silently, my steps approach.
HELENA
I’m about to give up when a glint of copper catches my eye. The object catches a ray of waning daylight from under a log against the base of a tree just outside the police tape. My heartbeat quickens as I duck under, squatting down with a stick in one hand and my phone in the other.
I use the stick to push the object outward from under the log, focusing my phone camera on the revealed small bullet. Before I can think, a hand closes around my throat, and my ponytail is yanked back.
“Jesus fucking Chri--”
A hand presses over my mouth as the other lifts me by the hair. "Ahh!"
I lift my shoe, kicking back and upward in search of a pair of balls. He catches my foot, squeezing it between his muscled thighs.
“M.O.D.?” he whispers in my ear, confirming it’s him. Mother fucking Dante.
He lowers his hand, his arms wrapping around my waist with his mouth to my ear. If somebody sees us, they’ll misinterpret this as a loving embrace. But I can feel the aggression cording his muscled, tattooed arms. He wants to hurt me, and he wants to get us both off in the process.
He tightens his grip uncomfortably.
“Answer me, Helena. Manner of Death.”
“Strangulation,” I spit out, and he grazes his lips over my ear, his hot breath tickling as he suckles, making my heart race and my panties wet.
“Then why the bullet, Hells?” he rasps.
“I...don’t know," I pant.
He gloves my body from behind as he walks me downhill behind a thicket of overgrown bushes. When I trip on a log, he pulls back before parking me in front of a tree. I twist downward as he attempts to tie my hands behind my back. He distracts me by grabbing me by the ponytail.
“Not the hair!”
I claw at his arm before he clamps my wrists together with cuffs. Rough, scaley grey bark fills my vision as he spins me around to face the tree.
“Bastard!”
“You’re not wrong,” he snickers. “I never knew my father.”
He reaches around, unzipping my jeans. On command, blood rushes down my core in preparation. Goddam, I don’t want to be dripping wet right now! The gall of this man.
“You’ve never fucked me outdoors before--bad idea!” I warn.
His belt rattles loose. “First time for everything.”
“We’ll be seen. This isn’t happening, Dante.”
“We won’t be seen. Why the bullet?”
He presses the tip of his enormously intrusive dick against my asshole--he knows I’ll do anything to avoid that type of sex.
“I told you. I don’t fucking know! The killer strangles. Must be...somebody else’s bullet.”
I sigh in relief when his erections slides downward, between my thighs, finding my labia.
He dry humps my outer pussy, making me humiliatingly sopping with physical need right here in a public park where anybody could come upon us.
“What is the advantage of a .22, Helena?” he asks as the head of his cock presses inward. I answer his question with a moan.
“It’s a small weapon,” he thrusts inside me. “Easy to conceal.”
I stifle the loud moan that wants to come out as he fucks me against the tree, talking to me in that trance-like deep voice he gets that reverberates through me like a dark melody.
“It’s quiet when shot," he thrusts. "Easy to miss in a crowd. Where--mm...fuck, you're cunt is tight. Where...did he kill them, Hells?”
He brings his hand around, caressing my clit as he fucks me. For a moment, I forget where I am. Then he stops his grinding just as I’m reaching climax, forcing me to answer. I just want to get off and get the hell out of here. But he’s relentless. Just answer his fucking question, Helena.
“Nobody knows. He got them…after the party,” I pant.
He rams me so violently that the wind is momentarily knocked from my chest as the right side of my face smashes against the craggy wood. That’s gonna leave a mark; I’ll have to cover it with makeup before my next--oh…god…ah-mm…
god...I'm coming in public.
Before Dante, I only ever had sex with regular preppy guys, the kind the parents would approve of. Nobody was ever as violently possessive as this insane beast of a man. He’s this anomaly, this exotic other, blindsiding me time and time again. Dante’s attention always feels like a darkly delicious death wish. I know it’s probably bad for me and going to kill me in the end. But he leaves me no choice.
When I come all over his oversized cock, he grabs my hair, knowing it hurts. He bites the back of my neck like a fucking animal as he ejaculates inside me. Gentle is not in this man’s vocabulary; for some reason, it gets me off.
Every. Single. Time.
God, what's wrong with me?
It’s the first time I’ve had sex outdoors and near a goddamn crime scene!
He buckles his belt. It’s not like he needs a belt—his jeans are fitted over his athletic legs and abs—but it’s a tactical rope that can be used as a cord. He's into that sort of thing.
My wrists are sore and red as I pull up my jeans. My panties are uncomfortably damp, and there is no bathroom in which to clean myself here in the woods.
“You didn’t have to put the cuffs on such a tight setting!” I complain.
This always happens.
My post-orgasm cloud begins to fade, and resentment filters in, which feeds into our twisted dynamic. He likes pissing me off and pleasuring me all at once. And he has leverage over me because he knows my secret. Dante is the only soul in the world who knows I secretly enjoy being tied up.
But he always takes it too far.
I’ve heard about couples with rules, safe words, and contracts, but that doesn’t apply here. There is nothing official about me and Dante. No agreed-upon terms. We aren’t even officially dating.
“It’s more fun that way,” he smirks, salting the wound on my pride. I’m ambiguous about the power he has over me. He takes what he wants when he wants; I hate to love it.
“You’re the most arrogant human I’ve ever known,” I spit out, and the corner of his ruggedly handsome mouth lifts.
I roll my eyes. “Even your oversized dick is arrogant.”
“Keep talking dirty, and I’ll cuff you and drag you to my jeep. Moreover, do not let me see you taking such risks again, Helena. He could have been out here. Snuck up on you. Snuffed you out. Cast you in his art. Which fairy tale princess has red hair?”
“It’s my job, Dante. You can’t stop me.”
“I can. I will.”
I crack a grin. “Keep me as your prisoner?”
He doesn’t return the smile. His dark blue eyes are deeply cold, like the Black River in winter.
We face off, and I resist blinking, trying to ignore how creeped out I get when his expression turns grim, and he looks dead in the eyes and doesn’t seem to be breathing like he’s in a dark trance. It's a face that matches his voice when he's fucking me.
“What are you…thinking right now?” I mutter, trying to break the spell.
“Don’t want to know,” he says in a deep, calm voice. “Go to your car right this minute, Helena. Leave here before I drag you away.”
I turn with an indignant huff and head to my car parked on the side of the highway, near a popular trailhead. The killer puts his displays where people will see them. His gig needs an audience.
Speaking of. I get on my cell phone to call the police about the bullet I found when Jen intercepts. I tap answer.
“Hey, hon. What’s up?” I squint, lowering my visor to block the setting sun.
“Change your mind?”
“Nope,” I sigh, pulling onto the road. I glance over as Dante's jeep pulls out, heading off in the opposite direction.
“Well. I’ve had a headache all damn day, anyhow. But we are still on for tomorrow, right? You’re going to like him. He’s a cool guy. Very good-looking.”
“Thought you didn’t know him.”
“Well, Chad recommends him, and it’ll be fun. More importantly, every girl in this town should arm themselves with a boyfriend bodyguard. I mean, how did we get so unlucky? In the national news every week. Did you know that serial killer tourists are coming here? Demented, crazy people.”
“Or they're just true-crime addicts like me."
"Either way," she laughs.
"Sometimes it takes a network of obsessives to solve a murder, Jen. Besides, Black River Valley is a big area. For all we know, the killer could just be passing through. Most of his crimes have happened in different towns.”
“But we’re the latest. I worry about you, Hells. I hope you’re being careful out there,” she yawns. “God, this headache is killing me.”
Her yawn is contagious. “Don’t worry about me. Listen, I need to talk to dispatch. Go get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Later, babe.”
“Later.”
The call to dispatch is brief. Randy doesn't accuse me of tampering with a crime scene, but he reminds me not to overstep my bounds and thanks me for the information. Well, if they had done their job properly. Just sayin.'
The hint of condescending bitterness in his tone didn’t go unnoticed by me. I have a feeling it has to do with my standing with him six months ago. Does he want me to feel guilty or do I just feel guilty all on my own? I didn’t have a good reason for bailing on him. It wasn’t because I’m not into him. He’s probably the only normal guy in town with whom I could see myself having a healthy relationship. Maybe that’s why I avoid him. Sometimes, it seems like I can’t do anything right when it comes to my personal life outside work.
Speaking of work. I’d much rather be thinking about that.
I ponder the case while I drive. Strangulation. Embalming techniques. But are there also exit wounds where victims were shot? I’ll need to look into this.
The sun is gone now. It always gets dark fast in this valley, surrounded by rolling, tree-covered hills, and late spring-time clouds add to the darkness.
Headlights trail me from behind, but I think nothing of it.
Dante's words haunt me a little as I drive the lonely, dark highway. His strangely knowing tone and grim expression when he warned me off this case for the umpteenth time. He so convincingly believes that I’m in danger that it makes me wonder.
The moment this new murderer sucked me into his vortex, Dante began randomly popping back into my life to convince me I was being stalked and that it could be the killer. Statistically, the odds are incredibly low that he’s right.
Serial killers are extremely rare, and being their target is even rarer. There are a lot of people working on this case. I’m just a small-town journalist blogger. Why the hell would the killer be after me? There is no reason whatsoever. Dante is merely using this as another control tactic. He doesn’t think or behave like a normal person. He works in finance and sees the world in numbers, even when it comes to people. Says the world is overpopulated. Plagues are good. That kind of thing.
My gas alert dings, but I’ll be near a station shortly. I glance at the approaching headlights in the mirror, still trailing but getting closer by the mile.
I recall his question. Which fairy tale princess has red hair? Let’s see. There are the two Disney princesses that I can think of. Merida and the Little Mermaid.
Merida would fit into the killer’s recent woodland theme. Little Mermaid could be posed by the riverbank. I imagine a blank stare on my face, my body stuffed into a tailed costume, dead by the water with a fanned fin.
A tiny row of chills creeps up my spine as I imagine being found like that.
When the taillights trailing me don't break away after I exit the highway, I begin glancing back in intervals. It looks like a black vehicle. By how low its lights are, it must be a car rather than an SUV or a truck.
I turn right; it turns right. I turn left; it turns left. This pattern continues as I meander through my neighborhood. The streets are quieter than normal--where are all the dog walkers usually out around sunset? Oh, right. I almost forgot that the festival is going on. Am I in the minority not attending, or what? As is this person trailing me.
Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I don’t turn into my driveway when I get home. If I am being followed, I'd rather not lead them to my house. Instead, I keep driving, turning streets at random. What are the odds that my random turns are the same path this car takes to its destination?
I turn left; it turns left. I make a U-turn. It follows. Shit, really? This goes on for a few minutes until I think I might take a little drive to the police station. See what happens then. But finally, the car turns in a different direction, and I sigh in relief.
Okay, that was weird.
Only now do I realize how fast my heart was beating. I continue glancing in my mirror as I drive home, seeing no more signs of my would-be stalker.
Stalker?
Dante’s words come to mind the last time he was at my house before I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore. He insisted that somebody was following me, but I didn’t believe him. I was tired of his manipulations and his controlling ways.
The only reason that Jen doesn’t think I’m bat-shit crazy for dating him in the first place is because she met him briefly, and she knows how drop-dead fucking gorgeous he is. In addition to having an impressively intimidating personality—cooly calm, extremely confident—his face, body, and stature turn all eyes into magnets. You can’t simply look away when he walks into a room. Like a king, he commands the space around him.
He's the kind of guy it’s hard to say not to, and he knows it. The bastard fucking knows it and wields it to his advantage. He could be a politician or a celebrity. But that’s not his thing. He likes numbers and rare art, not people. This is why he seems so aloof, calm and cool in social situations. Because he truly doesn't care.
My somewhat humble ego was not prepared for his attention.
He blindsided me with his possessive desire. If I were the lady my mother raised me to be, I’d tell him to go to hell. I’d be married to a normal man by now. We would be at the festival with Jen and her fiance, eating cotton candy and laughing at people between rides. But I’m still the tomboy, in search of abnormal adventure, and never quite fully sure of myself in a feminine way. Nor am I into the kind of guy I should be. Maybe it’s because they realize I'm odd once they get to know me and discover that I find their conventional ways a bore. Or maybe it's because they want me to act like I look. I don’t look like a dork, so why the hell do I act like one?
I scan the road in the rearview before stepping from my car and heading inside, where I lock up to the sound of Puma’s shrill meow. I’m always home too late by his account. I squat down over his hallway under-the-stairs-nook and pet behind his ears before moving onto his big, fat belly. Then I go to the kitchen and top off his water.
After eating some leftover chicken pasta and showering--absent-mindedly thinking of Dante as my hands caress suds over my naked breasts--I head to bed to read and get him off my mind while also wondering what I will wear for my double date tomorrow.
Jen doesn’t know it, but I only agreed to go along with this because when I Googled my date, Scott Hampston, I learned that he works as a local forensics consultant. Bingo! Turns out, this guy is my kind of date. According to his LinkedIn, he helps with recovered data. He also has experience in crime forensics with the regional police headquarters.
Now, this is the kind of connection a gal like me needs. This isn’t a big community, and surely, the investigators are using his services for the recent string of killings.
Maybe I'll even like the guy, and there is hope for me yet in settling down. But that’s probably a long shot.
My doubt is only confirmed when my phone beeps and I pluck it from the nightstand. It’s Dante, reminding me that I’m not the settling-down type. Because I'm into a guy like him, so something about me must be...off.
You were even wetter than usual, Helena.
I turn off my lamp, texting him back.
Is that so?
My cock doesn’t lie. I enjoyed fucking your tight pussy in the woods. Are you wet for me now?
I lower my hand between my thighs, cupping my already throbbing sex.
Maybe I lie.
He calls me, and I put the phone on speaker before setting it on the bed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he answers. “I’m working late tonight. Taking a short break. But I'm tempted to force my way inside your home and fuck you against the wall with a chokehold.”
“Not allowed,” I say.
“Better yet, I’d like to stuff a ball-gag in your pretty little lying mouth, rendering you quiet.”
“I meant what I said, Dante.”
“That we’re finished?” He snickers over how I contradict myself. If that were true, I wouldn’t have answered the phone.
“Always lying. Always trying to set boundaries,” he says.
“Boundaries are healthy.”
“Fuck boundaries. Speaking of boundaries. I’m mentally penetrating your strawberry pussy with my tongue. Mm.”
“My pussy doesn’t taste like strawberries,” I argue, caressing myself.
“Yes, it does. My mouth is watering.”
“Shut up and fuck me, Dante.”
“Get out the dildo I gave you.”
I roll onto my side and pull out the rubber, grey-colored, custom-mold of Dante’s long thick cock. Realistic, down to the veins running the fully erect shaft. Gifted to me on our fourth date. He told me to throw away my others. He only wanted me fucking myself with his, and only his. Who does that?
Bringing it beneath the covers, I slide its girth between my thighs, teasingly over my soft folds, just like he did when he had me up against the tree.
“I can’t get enough of your cunt,” he rasps, and I know he has his cock in his hand, stroking it.
“I’ve never worn a ball gag,” I pant.
“I have so much to teach you if you would only listen.”
“I listen.”
“No, Helena. You really don’t. You don’t understand me like I do you.”
“Whatever. I’m...not obsessed. Why is your dildo grey-colored?”
“Yes, you fucking are. More lies. I’m going to punish you for that one.”
I let out a little moan, and he groans.
“Come all over my big, fat, dick, Helena. I want to hear you.”
I thrust the dildo over my clit, before slamming it inside my pussy, my face flushing hot as I near climax. For Dante’s sake, I don’t stifle my cries when I orgasm.
“Point...proven," he says, catching his breath.
I roll onto my side with a hearty yawn. “Hm?”
“Another thing you don’t know about me."
"Do tell," I smile sleepily.
"Grey is my favorite color. Goodnight, Helena,” he says before hanging up.
With a sigh, I briefly open my eyes to a beam of moonlight, studying the strange, hulking shadow outside my window as I fall asleep with Dante's deep voice still in my head.
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