Page 18 of Killer Bones

I lie on my side near her. We’re almost spooning. Her arms move now and then, and she’s back to mumbling while staring at the opposite bulkhead, as if a film is showing there.

Gently, I shift aside the last piece of dress that’s shielding her ass.

I’ve done this all wrong and nearly wrecked this hit due to her. She has derailed everything.

Once again, fuck this.

I shift even closer, unzip and consider nudging my cock into her. On one elbow, I lean over and put my nose to her nape, inhale her scent, while I cup her breast and fondle her. I rove my hand over her belly, breasts, moving the dress so I can touch her pussy. I run my fingers into her slit, along it, enjoying the slip and slide, the wetness gathering there.

As I work at her, she leaks more, and her lips swell but she doesn’t speak or move. I don’t penetrate her. Restraint, fucking restraint. I’m practicing what I preach.

Last of all, I part her ass cheeks.

The longer I look, the harder it gets to say no. I shouldn’t. She may as well be asleep for all the reaction I’ll get.

“Hmmm.” I sit up and undo my belt, slip it from the loops, then wrap it about her neck and thread the leather through the buckle. She makes a small choking sound then the door slams open. I let the belt fall and slip loose and sit up. I tuck myself away.

“Here! Mr. Flores says you can have this.” The leader of the three who brought us here stands in the doorway. His mildly spiky black hair makes it seem like he tried but failed at being scary. He holds up my briefcase. “You are to stay in here for the trip which is another day and a bit. Bathroom is there.” It’s a chemical toilet that’s just reachable, with a bare shower nozzle and drain beside it. “I’ve been told to say, this is to remind you the deal is still on, just don’t do anything stupid again. Mr. Flores is fucking annoyed with you. Okay?”

I nod, and my briefcase is tossed in so that it slides to my feet.

“Jesus.” He shakes his head, raising his eyebrows at my partly unzipped pants. “Her? She’s the last thing I’d fuck. Got a nasty mouth on her.”

“You think her mouth is dangerous?” I nod at her, sprawled like a drowned swimmer. Izzy has paddled into the wrong ocean. “Besides, if they bite, I bite back.”

He snorts then leaves. The door locks.

My phone is in there. My laptop. All my papers and fake ID. This is promising. I want to be there when he and Kasimir meet, and that’s unlikely to happen if I really piss off Montez.

Fucking Izzy has lost some of its attraction.

As an afterthought, I kneel and sink my teeth into her naked butt. She winces and whimpers but falls back into semiconsciousness when I let go of her skin. The teeth marks stand out nicely and I stroke them until the dents pop out and turn purplish red.

The chain gets in the way, slithers over her body, clinks.

A little hematoma appears on her where I bit—bright due to the freshness of the blood.

Bruises and teeth marks are sadistic calligraphy on a woman’s body.

I want to know what makes her tick. Montez must have a connection to the internet? It does and the boat’s Wi-Fi accepts my laptop and my phone.

I find her insta, her blog, her Facebook page, her defunct TikTok, even her X profile, and start fishing for info. The political stuff isn’t surprising. I read some of it ages ago. Then I find an old link on her blog that goes to somewhere called Archive of Our Own.

The exact link is to a profile by a writer called Izzy F. “Not the best pen name, if you want to be anonymous,” I tell her, tsking. Then I start to read.

“One Night with My Stalker.” I snort at the title. “Holy fuck, what is this?”

I’m a fast reader when I want to be. I skim. I raise both my eyebrows at the sex scenes, a few times. She fantasizes about having a stalker?

“This is filthy but not bad.” I scroll and read further then end up unzipping again. Idly, I pull at my cock.

The next story is called, “My Victim,” and it’s told from the point of view of a…cue the shark music…a serial killer.

I am, I admit to myself, glued to the page. There are mistakes, but the editing ones don’t bug me as much as the ones where she gets the murdering and abductions wrong. A Glock doesn’t load like that. A knife used like that would leave them bleeding out or badly injured internally. That one would die soon after. Pointless. Unless she’s writing hopeless dumbass killers who simply get angry.

I’m being anal about this killing, even though this is fiction.

I’m annoyed and frowning, and I have this dead-set, mind-exploding need to make notes on what she needs to fix in these. I make some notes. Then I stop typing.