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“Yes!” he cries out.
My left hand travels to his hair, yanking slightly on the strands as I fuck him hard and fast. I’m fueled by pure lust and carnal desire, wanting only to fill him with my cum and mark him as mine. I ravish him with violent thrusts, grateful that he knows how to interpret my actions. He knows I don’t hurt him to cause him pain. It’s just the only way I know how to express myself, especially in these moments. He accepts my brutality in a way I think only he is capable of.
“I’m about to come,” I pant, my back bowing as my orgasm takes over.
“Oh yes, baby. Give it to me,” he moans.
I drop my forehead to his back and release deep inside him, my hands clinging to his waist. After several seconds, I ease out of him and we get our clothes situated. He faces me, giving me his lopsided grin before leaning in and kissing me behind my ear.
I encircle his wrist with my fingers. “I guess we should probably leave town sooner rather than later.”
“Not a bad idea.”
After rubbing my thumb across his hand, I let go and find my way to the driver’s seat so I can get us back to our motel where we’ll pack up and hit the road.
Kaspian
ChapterThirty-Nine
Days after we left Soledad Square, Willow was found by the owner of the cabin. I’m glad we weren’t in town and forced to react in a way that makes sense. Jason texted Quin to let him know that Willow had committed suicide in a cabin. Thankfully, it’s easier to fake emotion via messages. He also informed us of BJ’s murder in what’s being called a car theft gone wrong. We sent our condolences and didn’t think about either of them again.
Turns out the deaths of the man from the kink club and the one I found for Quin from another nearby town helped us out. The cops found out about their disappearances and linked them with the women from Soledad Square. They’re suggesting a traveling serial killer—one who seems to have moved on. They’ll continue to investigate, but I don’t think it’s anything we’ll have to worry about. After all, they’ll never find the bodies, plus Jason mentioned rumors of people blaming it on some guy that used to work at the theater there. Some guy named Jimmy apparently took off, and now suspicion is pointing in his direction.
We sold our trucks in New Jersey and bought another used truck for us to travel in together. We have a U-Haul cargo trailer of furniture and belongings from Quin’s house with us as we decide where we’re going to settle.
Small town or bustling city? North or south? We travel straight through the middle of the United States, enjoying the road trip while enjoying some indulgences. We are who we are, after all.
Turns out, Quin has a hefty savings account from the death of his parents, so we’re in no rush to get jobs. I have some money saved as well, but not nearly as much as he does.
One day, as we travel through Kansas, I flip through my sketchbook. It was one of the few things I knew I needed to keep.
“You’ve never shown me what’s inside,” Quin says, still looking at the road.
“Do you want to know?”
He glances over briefly. “Yes.”
“Pull over.”
Five minutes later, we’re in a parking lot of a gas station, and Quin shifts in his seat to look at me. “I remember seeing you with that book at The Perfect Blend. You showed a picture to one of the women and she looked amazed.”
“Now, I feel like I have a lot to live up to.”
I hand it over and he watches me as he takes it in his hands. Opening up to the first page, I chew on my bottom lip as I study his expression.
He doesn’t look up right away, but instead keeps flipping through the pages, his fingers brushing over the pictures.
“They look so lifelike.”
“I pay attention to detail.”
He looks at me then, his eyes boring into me. “I can see that.”
Eventually, he turns the book and shows me a page. “How? I didn’t even know you saw me.”
“I always saw you,” I say. “Even in a room of a million, I’ll always be able to find you.”
The photo is one of him at the library. He didn’t know I was aware of his presence, but I knew he was watching me from behind a shelf of books. I don’t have to study things for long to remember how to sketch them. In the drawing, you can only see part of him—his leg peeking out from the side of the shelf as his hand grips the side. His eyes, the ones that send chills down my spine, stare back at me through the spaces between the shelves.
