There it was.
Mysmile.
A laugh spilled out as you shook your head, your hair flying around your face. “Alright,” you breathed, stretching your arms above your head. You really should’ve been more scared of me. “I was telling the truth earlier.”
“About what?” I asked.
“I’ve always wanted to interview a serial killer.”
I stared at you, and you stared back, almost baiting me into agreeing to an interview. Of course, I could give you what you wanted and kill you before those words ever saw the light of day, but how did I know you didn’t have some kind of fail-safe in case something happened to you?
The way you were looking at me, like I was just an object you could dissect, investigate, chew up and spit out…a thing to talk to your friends about over late-night drinks, or a story you could write in your future memoir titled: I Interviewed The Sunny Pines Killer and Survived…it enraged me.
More than anything else in my life ever had. That moment, with you looking at me like you weren’t in danger, like you’d somehowwonmade me so fucking angry.
I leapt from the chair, and I knew you didn’t think I’d do it because as soon as my hand wrapped around your delicate throat, your eyes widened. Your breath caught. Your face paled.
And for the first time that night, I saw true fear enter your eyes. Your pupils blew out, and your nostrils flared, and your lips parted. You were finally scared of me. You finally understood the very real danger you were in.
I think that was when you realized you’d never leave this room alive.
SEVEN
My fingers flexedaround your throat. I wasn’t squeezing enough to kill you, but it was enough to scare you. Enough to show you that you couldn’t manipulate or charm your way into answers.
“I usually keep them drugged at this point,” I murmured, my face just inches from yours. Reaching up, you wrapped your hand around my wrist, but you didn’t try pulling me away.
“Why am I awake then?” you asked, your voice croaky.
“Because I want to watch the life leave your eyes. I want to feel your cunt relax around my cock when your death slips between your lips.”
You jerked backward.Finally,you were scared. Truly terrified of everything I could do to you. Finally, you realized this wasn’t a movie or a book about a serial killer. This was real life, and you were face to face with the most dangerous predator in the world.
I shoved you backward on the bed, the blankets tangling around your hips as you shoved at my chest. I grinned as I crawled above you, watching you squirm and fight under me. Roughly, I wrenched your arms down, anchoring them to your sides, and caged you in. You struggled to move, fought to freeyourself, but you couldn’t. Not with my weight pinning you to the bed, or your arms now trapped between my thighs.
Reaching back, I pulled my small blade from my back pocket. It wasn’t big enough to do damage, but it was enough to cut your body, to mark you up like your flesh was my canvas.
The blade glinted in the light as I dragged it down your chest. Goosebumps rippled across your skin, and your nipples pebbled until they were painfully hard.
“I could kill you now,” I murmured. Your breathing turned shallow. Your skin flushed rosy. “But I want to play for a while.”
I dug the tip of the blade into your skin, and watched crimson overflow from the wound. It dripped between your breasts, and I smoothed my hand over it, smearing your blood all of your skin.
A whimper escaped, and you turned your head to the side, as if you didn’t want to show me how scared you were. I grinned. I didn’t need toseeyou to smell your fear. To feel it snuffing out all the oxygen in the room.
I made another shallow cut along your arm, the sound of pain in the back of your throat spurring me to cut you again. And again. And again. Until soon, your blood had dripped in thin rivulets down your arms and soaked into the sheets below.
You weren’t trembling, and you weren’t begging for your life. You weren’t doing anything I was used to people doing by this point.
Instead, your eyes were screwed shut, and you were breathing steadily through your nose. Every whimper started sounding like a moan, and every cut began to feel like plunging my cock deep into your dripping pussy.
“Do you like this?” I asked, dragging my knife around your peaked nipple. A soft sound left you, and I laughed. “God, you’re such a freak.” Leaning down, I pressed my tongue against the blood spilling out of the cut between your breasts. The warm, metallic flavor exploded across my tastebuds, and I savored it asI swallowed your essence, ingesting the very thing that gave youlife.
You moaned then. A real, gutteral, involuntary moan. A shockwave of pleasure shot through me, and I dug the tip of my tongue into the shallow wound. Your hands flexed into fists, every muscle in your body tensing as I sipped your blood like it was a fine wine.
“I asked if you like this,” I said. You said something behind your teeth, keeping your lips clamped tightly shut, as if you didn’t want the truth to spill out. I dragged the blade shallowly against your throat. Not enough to puncture your delicate flesh, but enough to leave a red scratch behind.
“Yes,” you finally said, your voice breathless.
