As one arm lowers the dowdy scrap of material to the floor, the other maintains my modesty.
I don’t know why I bothered. The instant my bra hits the dusty floorboards, Dexter curls his arms around my back and drags me toward his thick, bumpy body. His steps to the bed seem long and drawn out as if he wants to keep me in his arms forever.
Disturbed by my inaccurate assessment of the situation, my eyes stray to the pill bottle on the floor. I really should take my medication as the thoughts streaming through my head don’t belong to a sane woman.
I love Nick.
My heart belongs to him.
So why am I hoping Dexter will keep me forever?
eight
DEXTER
When my hand darts up to switch off the drill pounding my skull into the next century, a soft moan makes me freeze midair. Against better judgment, I snap my eyes open. Mousy brown hair is fanned across my chest, and a cushiony ass is nestling my stiffened shaft.
Pain flies through my body when I scoot backward, lost and confused as fuck.
Where the hell am I? And how the fuck did I get here?
It takes me several minutes of scanning the dingy space to gather my bearings. I’m in a cabin my dad uses for hunting.
Not the hunting you’re thinking, but that’s a story for another day.
You’re probably also thinking,How convenient you happen to own a cabin a few miles from the psych hospital where you were admitted.
Once again, it’s not what you’re thinking.
My father owns many cabins, more than four in each state. When you hunt as regularly as he does, you take advantage of any location you can get. The closer, the better. That means his arsenal of properties is well into the thousands. Not all of them are as rundown as this cabin, but he doesn’t need comfort for what he is doing. He needs seclusion.
Ignoring the throb shooting through my back, demanding I remain still, I slowly rise to my feet. The world spins around me as the contents in my stomach threaten to spill at any moment.
While tugging on a pair of discarded pants dumped near the bed, my eyes drift to my sleeping companion. The scent of her hair already gives away who she is, but the impish thoughts drifting through my mind triple its guarantee. Even with my brain back to standard working order, my cock still wants to sink into Claudia’s heat.
Or should I say, “Wants to sink into Claudia’s heatagain?”
Did we fuck? Is that why I’m so sore?
To say my mind is hazy would be an understatement. I have no clue what happened last night. I assume since I’m sleeping in my dad’s cabin that Claudia and I escaped Meadow Fields, but how we got here and why we’re naked are complete blanks. The last thing I recall is biting Lee. I assume that’s why my mouth tastes like garbage?
My confusion deepens when my eyes stop tracing Claudia’s curves at the lower half of her body. She’s wearing panties. If we had fucked, they’d be shredded on the floor like her dress. I don’t like panties. They represent the very essence of why I hunted with my father.
I love the smell of a woman’s cunt. It is as enticing to me as the scent of her blood. Even now, though doubtful her near-unconscious state is from me fucking her brains out, I can smell Claudia’s seductive scent. It’s as alluring as the aroma of fresh blood filtering through the air.
When I cast my gaze down, I discover the cause for the cock-thickening scent. A t-shirt is crumpled at the side of the bed. It’s the same style all the male patients at Meadow Fields wear, it just has an added accessory. A large circular hole in the bottom left-hand corner surrounded by a ring of blood.
What the fuck?
I take off for the attached bathroom, my body screaming in pain with every step I take. After clearing away the gunk from the mirror with my hand, I twist around to face the cracked shower stall at the back of the dingy space.
Fuck it.I’m too short to see the area throbbing in pain.
After throwing down the filthy toilet lid with my foot, I balance on the seat’s rim. This is no easy feat with how woozy my head is, but it gives me enough leeway to view a line of stitches in the lower quadrant of my back. If I had to guess, I’d say fifteen to twenty butterfly knots are holding together a recent bullet wound.
I jump down from the toilet, hoping a few minutes of silence will ease my confusion.
All it gives me is a truckload of pain.
