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“Yeah,” he grunted and let his head fall back. This moment would have been perfect but it wasn’t how I planned it and I needed to stick to the plan.
“Oh fuck, Sadie,” he growled, and his hips bucked forward when I wrapped my lips around his cock and sucked.
I took his cock slow and deep while he growled his pleasure, the sound echoing off the creek. I tickled and squeezed his balls as he began to pump into my mouth, faster and faster, nearly choking me. His thigh muscles tightened, and Owen grabbed my hair and yanked me back. “What?”
“Your pussy. Now.”
I lifted one leg and straddled his hips, slowly impaling myself on his cock. “This pussy?”
He nodded; jaws clenched as he tried to ward off his impending orgasms. “Tight. Wet. Pussy.”
My pussy was still sensitive from the earlier orgasm, and the feel of his cock against my walls made me shiver with pleasure. I didn’t like the way I felt, fucking my enemy and enjoying it. Was this the thing that worried Mom every time I walked out the door? The power of ecstasy, which could make me do things I shouldn’t, enjoy things I shouldn’t. “Owen,” I growled and moved faster up and down his cock.
He gripped my hips tight and pumped up into me as I slammed down on his cock, sending him deeper and deeper. “Fuck yeah, babe. Just like that.”
I fucked him like it was my job, enjoying it but paying close attention for the perfect moment. It came soon enough. Owen’s skin flushed pink and sweat beads popped out on his forehead. He was close.
I was ready.
I leaned back, and the change in position sent his cock deeper, shocking a satisfied gasp out of me, momentarily distracted me from the next step. As I got used to the pleasure, I got back on track and reached under the blanket.
“Babe, I’m about to come,” he growled, lips twisted in erotic agony.
“Enjoy it, because it’ll be your last.” I waited until my words sank in and those dreamy green eyes looked up at me, and I plunged that knife deep into his chest.
Again and again and again.
With every plunge, his body jerked, and his cock thickened inside of me. Somewhere around the eleventh or maybe it was the thirteenth strike, Owen’s body convulsed with orgasm, and I stole it from him, stabbing him over and over, not stopping until I counted about forty-seven strikes into his stomach and chest and throat.
His last breath triggered an aftershock that scared the hell out of me, and I rolled off of him, looked down at the blood that coated both of our bodies and the blanket. It was stickier than I’d imagined, but I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t worried.
I wasn’t deterred.
I chose this spot because the water was deep, and though it took some time, I managed to roll him into the blanket and right into the creek. I put my clothes into a plastic bag, jumped into the stream to rinse away Owen’s blood, and changed into another all-black outfit before I made my way home.
Thankfully, Mom was asleep and Dad was passed out in his recliner when I got home. I slipped into my bedroom unnoticed and hid the bag in the back of my closet. After a quick shower, I changed into pajamas and got into bed, where I allowed myself one final thought of Owen Doyle as I used my fingers to bring myself to another orgasm.
That night was how I left Sadie Rose, good girl, behind. That night I became Sadie. Just Sadie.
And I owed it all to Owen Doyle.
My first kill.
My first hate fuck.
My first time escaping justice.
He was my first for many things, and no matter how hard I tried over the years, I could never ever forget him.
Chapter One
Sadie ~ Present
“You can wear this for your wedding, Kat. It’s timeless, and with a few alterations, it’ll fit you perfectly.” I held up the dress I wore when I married Colm. It was the same dress my grandmother wore when she married my grandfather back in Ireland. She cherished it so much, she made room for it in her trunk when they came to America. She loved Colm to pieces, was certain he was a good Irish man and would make an excellent husband for me and father to my children. Because of her certainty, she gifted me her wedding dress as a blessing.
Kat gave the dress her usual critical eye, and the look on her face told me what she thought of the handmade silk dress with lace on the arms and around the hem. Old. Not Old Country, but just old.
“I don’t know, Ma. The cut is kind of old-fashioned.”
“It’s handmade silk and lace. Real silk and lace.” When I was preparing to marry Colm, I thought the dress was the epitome of wedding elegance.
