AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I squeeze her ass more, I say, “You are mine, woman. Now apologize. Say you won’t do that again for anyone but me.”
“And just how do I apologize, Mr. Archer?”
I carry her back to her bedroom. I sit down on the edge of the bed with Layla still wrapped around me, kissing my jaw, down my neck. I reach up and grab a handful of her soft locks and tug her back so I can look at her.
“Ride my cock, baby, like the good girl I know you are.”
She lets out a long, sexy sigh at my words and starts tugging at my belt. Layla tears at my button and zipper, desperate to get to me.
I waste no time helping her free my length as she takes off her sexy black nightie that barely hides anything.
As much as I want and need her, I know that at this moment, Layla is mine. No one will ever see her this way but me.
“Layla. You’re mine. Only mine.”
“Yes, yours,” she answers, sliding down on my rigid cock.
Her beautiful, soft flesh envelops me. She’s pulling me into her with every move. I never want this feeling to end.
I’ve come this far in life.
Rebuilt who I am. Stepped out of the shadows. Found my light. The woman who brings me into the sunshine.
No one will come between us again.
I’ll never lose this feeling of being whole as long as I’m with her. As long as the only hands on her are mine.
“Give me everything.” I reach up and wrap my hands around each side of her neck, giving her a little squeeze.
The sinister side of me wants to reach further, push harder. Once I have a taste of the darkness, it’s so difficult to stay away.
“Harder. More. I trust you,” she rasps out.
And it’s that trust that fills me with hope and banishes the wicked thoughts that have consumed me of late.
Moving my hands down over her arms, giving her breasts a brief squeeze that makes her clench, I wrap my arms around her in a full embrace.
“I’ve got you, baby. Come.”
Together we fall.
I know I’ve done the right things to protect us. Protect these moments.
I just want to grant her those dandelion wishes she holds dear.
31
Layla
No matter how hard I try, I can’t find a comfortable position. I toss and turn, yet minutes go by, and I’m still awake. The clock beside my bed screams at me with each passing minute. Nothing will settle me. Looking over at where Cain is sleeping, I watch him for a minute.
The way his chest rises and falls with each breath he takes.
He looks so at peace.
Must be nice.
I consider waking him but shake off that notion. Cain always seems stressed. And overworked. I can’t possibly disturb him.
I allow myself a few more minutes of watching him. He’s unlike any man I have ever dated before. Are we even dating? We haven’t discussed it. But I guess, do we need to?
It’s obvious we both like each other. We’ve even discussed not being with other people, but despite these conversations, why shake the boat right now and ask him what we are doing together.
I don’t need a label.
Something tells me Cain doesn’t either.
After a few more seconds, I stand from the bed. My feet hit the cold wood floors of my apartment. I’m careful not to disturb him, tiptoeing past the bed and then out to the living room. Once there, I grab the remote and sit on the couch. I keep the TV volume low enough that he won’t hear it but loud enough that I can listen. This inkling to turn on the news hits me in the stomach. Ever since I saw the story of Cynthia Richards, I felt the need to look into it some more. Things have been crazy, so I haven’t had the opportunity. But I’m interested to see if maybe there’s been more news on it or if anything new has come up in the investigation. I know I need to talk to Cain about it, but our time is so sporadic, I don’t want to ruin it.
Once the TV is set to the news, I have to watch through a few different story cycles before the one I have been waiting for comes on. An update on the copycat serial killer. Is there enough evidence to call it a copycat? I wonder.
Holy fuck.
My hands start to shake, and my stomach bottoms out.
The TV has another image on the screen.
They no longer think Cynthia’s death is a copycat.
On the bottom of the screen, the text reads, “He’s back.”
The Compass Killer is back.
There is another missing woman.
And another body.
I catch a few things as the older male news anchor speaks.
This time, the MO is spot-on with the original killings seventeen years ago.
But the killing followed the pattern: Blond hair. Fair skin. Petite stature.
