“I’ll be alright.” You tucked your laptop under your arm again and headed for the door. “If you think of anything, tell me, please. I…I’ve always wanted to interview a serial killer.”
And then you disappeared.
FOUR
I waitedall of twenty minutes before switching the NO on the vacancy sign on and shutting down for the night. Then I snuck into the walls and went to your room again.
I found you where I found you last time—on the bed, hunched over your laptop, typing away. Now that I knew what you were doing, what you were writing about, I longed even more to read it. How much did you know? Were you onto me? Or were you genuinely curious?
A part of me felt like you knew the truth, and your little comment about wanting to interview a serial killer...was that your way of telling me that you knew it was me and that you didn’t care? That you wanted to interview me?
I stood there, just watching, for half an hour, but when it was obvious you weren’t going to tuck in for the night, I had to do something drastic. I hope you can understand—I didn’t have a choice.
There was this darkness inside me that demanded to be acknowledged and obeyed. I was helpless to do anything but give it what it wanted. And what it wanted was you.
Silently, I covered my face with one of those old gas masks—you know the kind, from World War 2? It’s black, with theseperfectly circular eye holes and a cylinder sticking out from the mouth? I reached over, twisting one of the hidden valves, and listened as the sickly-sweet gas hissed into your room.
I pressed my eye against the hole again, watching your nose wrinkle. At first, you didn’t react more than that. You probably thought it was just your imagination. But then you realized it was getting stronger, and something wasn’t right with your head.
Did it feel floaty? Did your eyes feel heavy? Did your body feel weaker?
You looked around, as if you were trying to find the source for it. But you wouldn’t.
The gas was invisible to you, but you could smell it. Confusion filled your face seconds before your eyelids drooped. You tried to fight it, but you couldn’t—it was inevitable, like a lullaby you couldn’t resist. You fell back onto the bed, head angled strangely. I watched the last of your fight slip away, watched your breaths turn shallow and deep, until finally…
You slept.
You looked so incredibly peaceful lying there. In that moment, you were helpless. Ripe for the taking. And totally, utterly, completely mine.
For a while, all I could do was just stare at you. Watch your chest rise and fall with your steady, unconscious breaths. Your legs were bent and angled, one of your feet dangling off the edge.
My steps were silent as I took each step toward you. The floorboards didn’t creak. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t do anything to disturb you as I inched closer and closer, until finally, I stood above you, still watching.
I reached out and brushed a lock of hair from your face. You didn’t stir at all. Your sweatshirt rode up your thighs when you fell backward, exposing more of your flesh that made my cock ache.
Your skin was soft beneath my fingertips. I trailed them up your thigh, and watched goosebumps ripple across your body. You shifted, and I paused, but I knew you wouldn’t wake.
You couldn’t.
The gas was now off, but it had taken root inside you. You’d be out for a while. A part of me wanted to wait until the drug had worn off before I began playing with you. I wanted you awake but still paralyzed enough to know something was happening but having no way of fighting it. I wanted to watch you come undone, despite your mind’s protests.
You blew a breath from between your lips as my hand disappeared under the hem of your sweatshirt. I toyed with your shorts but didn’t go higher than that. I was content like this—exploring.
God, you were so soft. Your skin. Your lips. Your hair. Your body. You were all soft curves, not a sharp edge to you.
You were perfect.
I crawled into bed beside you, and allowed myself a moment of fantasy. I thought that you were my wife and we were a normal, happy couple. That we were laying in bed after a night of fucking. Our days would begin and end the same—with me inside you.
Our routine would be perfect.
I rolled onto my side, staring at you. Your head was still angled in a way that would cause your neck to hurt, but I didn’t want to touch you. Not yet. You slept so peacefully, like you trusted me.
Finally, I couldn’t resist anymore, and I wrapped my arms around you, dragging your limp body closer to mine. My eyes traveled down the length of your body, lingering on the worn hem of your shirt.
You’d probably be more comfortable without it.
I trailed my hand down your side, letting my palm glide over every curve. The fabric of your sweatshirt was worn and old. Like you’d had it for years and years. But it would get warm in the room soon—I didn’t want you to get overheated.
