Sue me.
I travel another hundred miles before the heaviness of my eyelids becomes too great to ignore. I’m cutting it close to thirty-six hours without sleep, but that isn’t the reason I’m pulling over for some shuteye. The vicious twang in my lower back won’t take no for an answer, much less the cotton wool lodged in my throat.
Since he is dead, I’ll never get confirmation, but I’m fairly confident if I hadn’t killed Joseph last night, he would have gutted me like a dog. He wanted Megan, and he was willing to do anything to get her—including drugging me.
That’s why my head was so woozy. It wasn’t a mental breakdown or coming face to face with whiskey after a prolonged stint of absence. It was Joseph’s weakness for fair-skinned women with big, innocent eyes.
And perhaps the adrenaline Little Ms. Psycho’s attention overdoses me with.
Megan is making me deranged—even more than usual. If I weren’t relishing the high, I’d be pissed. But alas, you can’t be both angry and turned on.
Well, normal men can’t be.
“Come on, Megan, I got us a room.”
I dig a room keycard into her thigh, endeavoring to wake her up. She moans before burrowing her head more profoundly into the truck’s bench seating.
“Megan…”
I dig the card in harder this time.
Still nothing.
Pissed at the delay, I jog to the passenger side of the truck, hook her ankle, then drag her out of the vehicle. I intend to let her fall to the ground, but before she gets halfway there, my arms dart out to catch her. I still can’t hurt her. I want her to bleed via my knife while lying naked in front of me, not some gravel rash ooze that would only satisfy my craving for a few seconds.
Two stitches in my back pop open when I pull Megan to my chest before striding to our hotel. Cautious our truck may have been reported as stolen, I parked several miles away from our hotel to make sure we remain under the radar. Now, I’m wishing I wasn’t so cautious. Megan isn’t heavy, but the weight of her closeness is enough to kill a man.
I want her beneath me, but I’ll be dead if I touch her. One sniff, and my dad will know she isn’t pure. He requested her untouched, which means I must deliver her untouched.
Obeying my father’s command isn’t foreign to me. It’s how I survived my last twenty-eight years, but the adrenaline that pools in my brain when Megan is close is just as hard to ignore.
The fiendish glint in her eyes is magnetizing, but the way she looks now—a perfect, limp little doll—makes a switch inside of me flick on. It’s one I haven’t used in an incredibly long time. My impish heart breeds evil faster than it pumps blood, but when Megan is in my arms, she slows it down.
I buried desires deep inside me years ago thanks to my father’s demands. He was looking out for me, ensuring I saw the world for what it is instead of how it made me feel. It was for the best. The world is brimming with cruel, sadistic people. I’m merely staying one step ahead of the pack.
After gripping Megan’s ass with one hand, I wave a hotel keycard across our room door. I kick the heavily weighted door shut, then merge deeper into the affluent-smelling space. The hotel clerk had to shuffle reservations to grant me the room I requested. A double would have been adequate, but a king deserves to sleep in surroundings matching his reign. That’s why we’re not staying in a standard dime-a-dozen motel on the side of the highway. We’ve got the presidential suite. It’s the least I can do, considering this weekend will be Megan’s last with a pulse.
I lay Megan on the massive bed in the left wing of our suite before tugging off my boots, shirt, and jeans. Once I am naked, I set to work on undressing Megan. I want her scent embedded in my skin even more urgently than I want to sink my cock into her fragrant, enticing cunt.
“Shh,” I tell Megan when she slaps my hands away in the process of removing her blood-stained shirt from her body.
It’s not her blood. It is Lucy’s blood that Megan removed from the razor blade before cradling it in her palm like a precious gem. Since she is without the floral dresses she donned every day the past two months, the razor has become her security blanket. It makes her feel safe.
I’m glad. I doubt she’s felt safe in years.
Once I have Megan’s shirt and panties removed, I attempt to pry open her fingers so I can dump the razor on the bedside table. Her grip is so rigid, if I weren’t afraid of having my eyes gouged out in the middle of the night, I’d leave it in her hand.
“Megan, it’s Dexter, open your hand.”
My veins double their thickness when her hand pops open without delay.
Smirking at her submissiveness, I pluck the knife from her palm, dump it with her clothes, then jog to the other side of the bed to dive beneath the sheets. Dissatisfied that I’m on one side of the bed while Megan is on the other, I drag her to my side by her elbow. She releases a frustrated groan. My body hears it in a completely different light.
“Sleep,” I instruct her when my cock bracing against her curvy ass rouses her more than our two-mile hike through the woods. “You need your rest. You have a big day on Sunday.”
The hum she releases thickens my cock, but she does as instructed.
Her training is going well.
