Chapter 29 Cal
Cal
I've been obsessed with her for longer than she's known, but whatever it is filling me when I wake up with her still sound asleep on my chest, it's unlike anything I've ever felt.
The sex was too.
My beast likes to be firmly in control. He fights me for it in high-adrenaline situations, particularly in bed. It's how I think my need to kill became somehow linked to my sexual desires.
But watching my little doll steal the control from me?
There will never be anything sexier, I'm certain of it. She did it so seamlessly, turning me into a pathetic mess, desperate for whatever she'd be willing to give me.
She found strength in the control, I could tell. It was part of what got her off, knowing that she could do anything she wanted to me.
It was a learning experience for me too.
I've told her I'm a killer, and she's refused to run. Not only that, it appears she's doubled down. At her disposal, my door was unlocked, and my wallet and keys were accessible. She could have left me chained to the bed, naked and just waiting on someone to come check on me.
The cleaners would probably find me first, and what an awkward conversation that would be.
Amber also could have done so much more. She could have hurt me... killed me. She's seemed a bit numb to all our talk of death, and while I haven't yet figured out if she's the same sort of broken as me, it's clear that she's willing to go past the point of morality in the name of justice.
She's slid off me a bit, her hair sticking to the sweat that dried on my skin.
My cock was hard again when I woke, the tip of me still buried inside her.
It's an excruciating kind of pleasure, just like what she did to me before this.
She drained me within seconds of settling over my dick and rocking against me, but there was no way I was going to tell her.
I wouldn't dare breathe the word stop, because I didn't want her to.
Instead, I reveled in the pleasure even as it turned to an un-sexy kind of pain, balanced out by how fucking erotic she was just taking what she wanted.
I've noticed she gets a gleam in her eye when she gets something she wants... I haven't yet figured out whether it's excitement or triumph, but I resolve to give her everything she wants, just to see that excitement from her over and over again.
I close my eyes and try to refocus on sleep, to slink away the way she does. It seems easy for her, to slip inside a place no one can reach her.
I know she's good at it, based off of when she asked me to fuck her the way I did before.
But watching her seemingly able to close her eyes and slip out of her body, not reactive to what was happening to it, is strange.
I've never seen anything like it, and I'm surprised to find that it concerns me.
.. not the fact she does it, but the fact that she had to learn to do that, right?
I don't think that sort of reaction to physical stimulation is innate; it's learned through experience, trauma.
Whatever my little doll endured before she was mine should be none of my business. It doesn't change her value, doesn't detract from how much I want to be inside of her, beside her, all over her.
But the thought of her in pain, hurt, suffering so badly she had to learn to project her mind somewhere different than her body? That very much concerns me.
Ignoring the urge in my bladder, I stew, imagining hunting down the men who hurt her. I know that how she came to me was probably a great source of pain, and we've already agreed to take out men like that.
Amber thinks we can tame my beast by being strategic with my need to kill.
It’s why she has convinced me to offer herself up as bait, a trap to lure vile men to their deaths.
Any man who would pay to fuck an unconscious woman deserves to be removed from the face of the earth.
But using her for this? Watching another man touch her while I wait for him to be distracted enough to kill them?
It's unfathomable.
Mercenary killings, she called them, because eliminating them will be a mercy to their victims.
I know, realistically, that there isn't that much that separates me from the monsters who hurt her. I know that I am the villain in someone else's story—I’m the person who ended the life of a woman just like my little doll.
That guilt eats me alive in the small spaces where I'm not possessed by the need to continue hunting, hurting, and killing.
No matter how many therapists I saw when I thought I could be fixed, none of them ever seemed to understand when I said that it sometimes feels like static in my brain. It's so prevalent that I forget it's there most of the time, droning in the background.
And then other times, it's like someone's turned up the volume and everything becomes too much, and I can barely breathe because I can feel the sweat on the back of my neck, worsened by the compulsion I learned to silence through sex... and murder.
I stumbled upon my vice for murder by accident, but I don't think it makes me any better than the people who do it because they enjoy it. No matter how much I despise them, it doesn't make me superior in any way.
And that's a hard truth to sit with when I'm holding her, knowing I'm one of the monsters of her nightmares.
There's no nightmare now. She sleeps peacefully, deeply, as I lie trapped beneath her.
I need to move, but there's no chance I'll wake her up before she's ready.
I don't know how much time passes before I feel her lashes flutter against my skin, drawing me out of my thoughts of exactly how I'm going to murder everyone who's ever hurt my little doll.
There's a moment of stillness as her eyes open, but she doesn't move, trying to remember what happened. And then her eyes find mine. By the way her lips curve, I can tell she's embarrassed.
“I fell asleep on you.” She says, like it's something she needs to apologize for. When she pulls her face away from my chest, her skin is red, and her hair is matted with drool and sweat. When she wipes her chin, she realizes exactly what it was, but she doesn't mention it, so I don't either.
I'd prefer her drooling on my cock, but she looked far more peaceful doing it on my stomach, so who am I to argue?
“I fell asleep in you.” I smirk. “Take that as a compliment. You were fucking magnificent.”
She laughs, and it causes her muscles to squeeze my cock, which had finally deflated after cycling through erections, leaving me trapped inside her and testing my will to not wake her up and make her ride me again.
She seems to realize I wasn't lying, that we're still connected. I haven't exactly been able to move, and she slept hard enough I'd worry she was unwell if it hadn't been for the fact I know she was fine just before this.
When her eyes return to me, she looks even more embarrassed.
“I... you're still... hard?”
“Not still.” I laugh, and the motion makes her jolt, squeezing me tighter so that I groan.
I've needed to piss for hours, and I've managed to ignore it. But now that she's awake, looking so innocent and making me laugh, I can't stand it much longer.
“Hard again. I went soft a few times, but every time you moved, my dick thought you were ready for round two and got a little ahead of himself.”
She stares at me for a moment like she's trying to understand that. “How long was I asleep?”
“It's been a few hours.” I lie.
It's definitely been more than a few.
I'm starving, have to piss, and my back is killing me from not moving all night. But I'm more at peace than I think I've been in my whole life, and I'm reluctant to leave the bed even after she lets me free.
Which reminds me that now is probably a good time to tell her…
“A few hours? Why didn't you just... push me off of you?”
I answer that by tugging on the cuffs, letting them clank against the iron headboard. Her eyes widen when they shift to mine and realization sets in.
“Oh, shit!”
She slides off of me so quickly that I groan, my cock throbbing at the sudden loss after being absolutely wrapped in her for the last few hours. She's already on her knees digging through the nightstand by the time I catch my breath to tell her she won't find a key.
“They're not there.” I tell her, unable to keep from laughing at the absurdity.
“Huh?” She turns to me, wild. “What do you mean?”
“The keys. They're not in there. I don't have any.”
“You don't have keys?” Her voice is suspicious, clearly not believing that. “Is there a safety release or something?”
“No safety release.” I assure her. “They're real. I just lost the key.”
She blinks, deciding not to question how I managed to lose a key to handcuffs. “Okay. So, what? Do you have a spare somewhere?”
“Not here.”
I see the panic setting in as her eyes flicker up to the spot where she wrapped me around the headboard... iron, solid, unforgiving. It's not like she can simply pull the bars apart to free me.
“What do I do? Call the cops?”
That gets another laugh out of me, making my bladder scream.
“I'm a killer, little doll. I can't invite the police into my apartment so they can free me from the handcuffs my stolen girlfriend put me in.”
“Girlfriend?” She asks so harshly that I'm actually offended by how horrified she sounds.
“Sex toy? Lady friend? Mistress?”
I shake my head.
“You can be whatever you want to be to me, but I need you to call Dex before we decide if we're going steady or just friends with benefits. Please?”