I stop dragging my hands down my stomach when a strange sensation zooms through the middle of my legs. It’s a hard feeling to describe, but it’s similar to when I’m busting to use the bathroom, but my bladder is empty. It’s a nice tingle, but very much foreign.
When my eyes survey the area the sensation is coming from, I discover the cause for the pleasing zap. Dexter is staring at me. His eyes are hooded, and he looks extremely hungry.
Did he not eat supper before calling it a night?
After licking his dry lips, he says, “There is a way we can keep warm until the wood dries. . .”
His words trail off when I take a step back. He smiles as if pleased by the challenge. “You are soaking wet, Claudia. If you sleep like that, you’ll get sick.” His tone doesn’t relay worry. Neither does his wolfish grin.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. It isn’t. I’ve grown accustomed to the cold. I wear summer dresses rain, hail or shine. They were the only items hanging in my mother’s wardrobe when she died. Since I outgrew my childhood clothes within three years of her death, I either walked around naked or wore her dresses. I chose the latter.
The blue tinge my toes get in winter reminds me of her. Her eyes weren’t blue. But her lips were for a very long time.
“Claudia. . .” Dexter’s growl has my heart rate picking up.
Not once the past six weeks has he spoken to me in such a way. His words were gentle purrs and nurturing rumbles. He never raised his voice. I’m not saying I don’t like his rough tone. I just need to get used to it.
I point to the window seat, advising Dexter I plan to sleep there.
“Whatever. Freeze. See if I care.” His grumbled comment proves he understands me even without any verbalization.
This is only the second time in my life I’ve communicated without words. First it was Nick. Now it is Dexter.
I like that.
Air whizzes through Dexter’s teeth when he rolls over. I don’t know whether his huff was because of my denial or the pain no doubt rocketing through his body from his stitches tugging. I’m no one special, so I suspect it is my last assumption.
I realize I’m way off the mark when he tugs his wet pants down his naked backside two seconds later. He isn’t grunting because he’s in pain. He’s struggling to remove the stiff material from his body.
My eyes drop to a loose stitch in my dress when he tosses the rigid material onto the ground. It lands with a thud on the grimy floor halfway between us before he snickers, “Night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Although his tone is brimming with sarcasm, I scan the room, petrified about what bugs he is referring to. . . And perhaps to catch the occasional glimpse of his naked backside.
* * *
Roughly twenty minutes later,the chatter of my teeth becomes too annoying for Dexter to ignore. I’m shivering uncontrollably, equally cold and terrified. It isn’t the bugs scaring me—it is how many times I’ve ogled Dexter’s ass the past twenty minutes. I’m eyeing the ridges of his muscular back and ass without constraint, not the least bit worried about what Nick’s reaction will be at discovering I’ve eyed another man.
If I hadn’t spent the last five years in a psychiatric hospital, I’d admit myself for my ludicrousness. I’m stunned at the thoughts streaming through my head tonight. I only ever killed for one man. Tonight, I killed for another.What’s wrong with me?
After jackknifing into a half-seated position, Dexter throws his legs over the bed and heads my way. I’m tempted to scream for him to stop, but the image of his. . .penis.. . swinging with every step he takes is too mesmerizing. I’ve only seen two penises in my life. One was my father’s, so it doesn’t count, and the other was Nick’s. But even then, it was never up close and personal like this.
My dad’s was when he’d forget to close the bathroom door when showering. Nick’s was anytime he was withher.He must havereallyenjoyed the heinous things they did together—because they did them a lot.
By a lot, I mean a minimum of two to three times a day.
My body got the same thrilling sensation back then as it has tonight, but tonight’s is more powerful, missing the red-blooded fury.
Air leaves my lungs in a grunt when Dexter snags my wrist in his hand, yanks me to my feet, then shreds my dress straight off my body. You’d think the drenched material would give him a little trouble. It doesn’t. The sturdy material is like tissue paper in his big, manly hands. It floats to the floor like a feather, the brutal grunts emitting from my mouth helping it soar.
It takes me a few moments to realize what is happening. When I do, I grunt, demanding the focus of Dexter’s eyes.
He doesn’t give it to me.
“If you want me to stop, Claudia, just say the word.” He keeps his eyes on the downlow, ensuring he won’t spot my unspoken denial.
Since he refuses to hear the words I can’t speak, I slap his hands, chest and face, forcing him to feel them instead.
My fight only encourages his campaign. The harder I hit him, the more violently he tugs at my dress. Before I know it, I’m standing before him in nothing but a bra and a pair of modest panties. Well, they were modest before torrential rain had its way with them.
