15. Dane
15
DANE
Abigail
Home safe. Thanks for the gelato.
I stare at her perfunctory text and try to ignore the hot churning in my gut. I’m irritated. Frustrated.
Almost irrationally angry.
My fist tightens around the phone. I refuse to be ruled by these feelings she brings out in me, even if I do enjoy the novelty.
So, I relax my grip and tap out a reasonable reply.
Dane
Glad to hear it.
I didn’t buy her cheap dessert; she did. I chose to avoid a potential argument and didn’t say a word when she handed over her change. There’s no reason for her to thank me for it.
And that kiss…
She shuddered and pulled away from me when I’d been experiencing the greatest high of my life. It’d taken all of my considerable willpower to appear genial and understanding instead of acting on the savage instinct to cage her in my arms and claim her mouth until she softened and submitted.
I crave to unleash myself upon her, but I have to handle her with care. She’ll run screaming if I allow her to see the full truth of what I am. I can be patient. Careful.
I know she secretly fantasizes about the dark things I need to do to her. It’s simply a matter of time for me to earn her trust.
She’s setting her phone down and picking up her paintbrush. But I’m not ready to let her elude me.
I lean farther back into the shadows of my azalea bushes and lower my binoculars so that I can type out another message.
Dane
I want to see you again.
The rounded end of the paintbrush touches her lips. She stares at her phone where it rests on the small side table that she keeps beside her easel for access to her pink water bottle. The brush slips between her lips, and I imagine my cock sinking into that lush mouth.
She doesn’t touch her phone for several long seconds. She’s looking at it like it’s a feral animal that might bite her if she makes a sudden move. The paintbrush is tapping against her lower lip now as she twirls it between her deft fingers. A small furrow creases her brow.
I forget how to breathe while the seconds tick over into a full minute.
She’s afraid of our connection for some reason. But she’s also intrigued. Tempted.
The way she’s toying with that damn brush is practically erotic, even if she has no idea how she’s tormenting me.
Fuck, I need to see her lovely eyes up close, to watch them darken with that intoxicating mix of trepidation and desire.
My cock stiffens, but I ignore my mounting lust. I’m rooted to the spot, frozen in breathless anticipation as I wait for her to pick up her phone and answer me.
There’s a slight tremor in her fingers when she finally bends to my will. She taps her screen, hesitates, then taps it again.
My phone chimes, and I suck in a deep breath.
Abigail
That sounds nice. Where do you want to meet?
I force myself to pause, determined to make her wait. It’s only fair that she’s tormented by the same maddening uncertainty that plagues me every time I’m near her.
My mind races through potential dates, and my thumb strays toward the internet browser icon on my phone. For the hundredth time, I consider looking her up online. If I know more about her, I can manipulate her more easily.
I take a breath and crush the impulse, forcing my way through the moment of weakness. Social media is anathema to me, and even if I created a fake account to stalk her, the information I would glean would be superficial. I’ve seen into Abigail’s soul, and I won’t be satisfied with a falsely cheery public persona that she might present to her friends online.
I will learn her secrets in person. She will surrender each one to me, until I possess her completely.
I return to our messages instead of opening the browser.
Dane
I’d like to surprise you. I finish work at five, so I can pick you up at six-thirty.
I need her to share her address willingly. Then I can come see her whenever I want.
The paintbrush dips between her lips again, and she grazes the tip with her teeth.
I nearly growl as my lust surges, but I manage to cling to my iron control.
My phone buzzes, and her address appears on my screen.
Triumph heats my chest, and I don’t have to hide the savage edge of my grin; I don’t have to wear my mask for anyone in this moment. I’m fully myself in a way I can only be with Abigail.
She’s not ready to see me like this yet, but one day, she’ll moan my name and tremble for me while I hold her with cruel passion.
I type out a confirmation of our plan to meet and then set my phone down, allowing her the quiet time she needs to paint. I won’t distract her again, not when I’m burning with curiosity to see what will spill out onto her canvas.
Time slips away as I watch her paint. It takes a while for the feverish brushstrokes to coalesce into a nature scene. For a short while, I’m mildly disappointed; I’d hoped for another dark fantasy tonight.
But then the elegantly draped branches of live oaks take shape, dripping with lacy Spanish moss. Battery Park is bathed in waning sunlight, syrupy and golden where it filters through the rich green canopy.
She’s painting our date.
This is far more intimate than an erotic scene. Those paintings reflect the dark desires she shares with GentAnon, but this view from the gazebo is what she shares with me.
I forget all about sipping my Macallan as she continues to work late into the night. My full attention is harnessed by her vision of what we shared in the park this evening.
The white railing that surrounds the gazebo is barely visible, a subtle frame at the bottom of the painting. Two hands are entwined atop it, and I recognize the familiar shape of her slender fingers beneath my own.
She might’ve run from our kiss, but Abigail is clearly still thinking about the allure of our physical connection.
By the time she sets her paintbrush down for the night, I’m buzzing with a strange high—it’s definitely not from the alcohol I barely touched. My blood thrums through my veins, and desire makes my blood simmer. It’s not purely carnal desire; I want this woman. All of her. Body, heart, and soul.
When she disappears into her tiny bedroom for the night, I briefly consider relocating to my larger, more expensive house across town. But I’m craving to be close to her, so I choose to stay in the ramshackle property I bought just so I can watch over her.
I pass her landscapes as I walk through the entry hall and living room. There’s nearly a score more in my bedroom—a cramped space that barely fits the high-quality king-size bed. This place might be rundown, but it doesn’t mean I have to be uncomfortable.
I fall back onto the Egyptian cotton sheets and stare at my trophies: the stunning paintings I’ve purchased from the tourists who bought them from her in the market. I keep her stormiest works in my bedroom. It’s the only glimpse at her inner darkness that’s evident in her otherwise lovely art depicting the natural world.
My cock is still hard from watching her toy with that damn paintbrush all night, and my craving for her is keen enough to cut.
I should let her sleep, but I’m too selfish to hesitate. I want her, and she will meet my needs.
I pick up my phone and navigate to Eroticlit, immediately finding our months’ long private messaging thread.
GentAnon
Wake up, little dove. I have need of my pretty pet.
The tick beside her screenname remains stubbornly gray.
I give her five minutes to see that I’ve messaged her.
My gut twists into knots, and my chest heats.
GentAnon
Answer me. Your silence is rude, and rudeness will be punished.
A green tick mark. Three bouncing dots.
They disappear, then appear again.
And again.
My fingers are tight enough that my knuckles are white around the phone.
CagedBird
I’m sorry. I can’t tonight.
I taste copper on my tongue, and I realize I gnashed my teeth hard enough to cut the inside of my cheek.
Abigail has never said “no” to me.
At least, not as GentAnon.
In person, I’ve been frustrated by her refusals and rejections over the last several days. Even though she clearly enjoyed our time in the park this evening, she still ran away from me at the end.
I won’t tolerate her evasiveness. When we’re in this virtual space, sharing the darkest parts of ourselves, I don’t have to wear my charming mask.
GentAnon
You can try to run, but I will chase. I will capture you, little dove. And then you’ll be sorry that you tried to deny me.
Those fucking dots bounce on my screen again. My fist is a vise around the phone.
CagedBird
I mean it. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
A low growl reverberates through my bedroom, a predator with its hackles raised.
GentAnon
Why not? I expect an explanation.
For several long seconds, I contemplate smashing my phone against the wall as those three dots dance in a mockery of my mounting rage.
CagedBird
I met someone. I can’t do this anymore.
Something expands rapidly at the center of my chest to the point of pain, as though my ribcage can barely contain it.
She’s not rejecting me; she’s choosing me.
The real me, not my anonymous online persona.
And her message indicates that she’s developing feelings for me. Why else would she stop exchanging dirty messages with her pen pal?
She wants to be loyal to me. To Dane, not GentAnon.
My cock is still painfully hard, but my lust holds a covetous edge. I can deny my desire to share dark fantasies with her tonight if it means I’ll have her in my bed for real.
Soon, she’ll be snuggled up beside me in my much nicer house across town, a space that’s worthy of her. She’ll cuddle close to me, and I’ll make her so safe and comfortable that she’ll never want to leave. Her dilapidated little apartment will be a thing of the past, and no walls will separate us.
GentAnon
I understand. Be happy, little dove.
CagedBird
Thank you.
I log off the messenger service, and my phone doesn’t light up with another notification. She’s logged off too.
That era in our relationship is over now. Until she trusts me enough to share her body with me, I’m sure I’ll face nights of sexual frustration. But the wait will be worth it.
I reach under my pillow and find the soft, paint splattered camisole that I stole when I broke into her apartment. Her scent is faint beneath the fading, sweet florals of her detergent, but I can still detect her delicate strawberry bodywash infused in the fabric.
I imagine burying my face in the crook of her slender neck and breathing her in as my teeth mark her shoulder. Her sharp cry is the sweetest music that I’ve never heard, but I’ve imagined it over a hundred times. I will make her weep with agonized pleasure, and she’ll taste the salt of her own tears on my tongue when I claim a brutal kiss.
I snarl into her camisole, biting down on the soft fabric as I come undone for her.