5. Erica
The silence inside the dim room suffocates me, making me second-guess myself.
And him.
What if the truck thing was an excuse because he’s too polite to decline outright?
What if he’s not coming back?
I throw my handbag and the chips on the TV stand and turn on the light on the nightstand.
Next stop is the bathroom mirror to check my makeup and hair, ensuring none of my red lipstick has gotten on my teeth.
Anxiously, I tug my dress down my thighs like I’m not hoping he’ll tear it off me the moment he walks in.
If he ever walks in.
I return to the main room and shame hits my face like I stepped in front of a furnace.
There are bottles on the bed and the nightstand.
Candy wrappers on the floor like confetti.
Empty ramen cups stacked on every surface.
I grab the bin by the door and sweep the trash into it, but I don’t feel any calmer when I’m done and take my phone from my bag.
My fingers tremble as I try to choose some music.
A panicked thought about STDs flickers through my mind, but I disregard it.
It doesn’t matter.
Not during my last night.
I know I am clean.
After my ex-boyfriend Nate disappeared with my savings I immediately got tested.
I thought if he was dishonest enough to steal from me, he might have been cheating, too, and the contraceptive implant on the inside of my upper left arm wouldn’t protect me from that.
Time ticks by.
With each second, my heart thumps faster.
How embarrassing would it be if he bailed ?
As I scroll through my playlists for something to set the mood, I wonder what music my handsome stranger would like.
Pah, he probably doesn’t care.
We’re hooking up for casual sex, not getting to know each other.
I remember our conversation and pause.
Why did he tell me about his mother?
He could have brushed me off, but I found it adorable to hear him overshare.
It created an illusion of familiarity that eased my nerves, and before that bout of word vomit, he was almost too intimidating.
He was still scary when he towered over me, but scary in a good way.
In a toe-curling, damp panties kind of way.
I tap on my favorite Marilyn Manson album, set it on shuffle, and I Want To Kill You Like They Do In The Movies starts playing.
On cue with the first line of the lyrics, the door opens.
I spin around, and my breath hitches.
The stranger’s body nearly fills out the whole frame and he has to duck his head as he steps inside the room.
A wave of wanting rushes through me.
If every part of him is this big…
He locks up behind him and tips his hat, greeting me with a half-drunk bottle of cheap whisky.
The predatory sting of his gaze contradicts the warmth of his smile as he strides toward me.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” he asks, his voice slick and dark as oil.
“No names,” I whisper.
His chin dips in agreement and he stops in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.
With a slow twist, he unscrews the bottle and tosses the cap onto the floor.
“Open your mouth for me, little dove.”
Lightning shoots between my legs.
God, his commanding tone is fucking hot.
After the sweet talking and the jokes earlier, I didn’t think he had it in him, but those last words he said to me by the vending machine should’ve been a hint.
Then again, many guys talk big but can’t deliver when it counts.
Does that mean he’ll fulfill his promise to ruin me?
And what about that pet name…
little dove?
A strange choice for a woman he doesn’t know, but I guess he has to call me something else if I don’t want to tell him my real name.
It’s more intimate than baby or honey or another generic word.
It makes me feel special.
My lips part and he grips my chin, tilting my head back.
He lifts the bottle above my face and tips it, pouring a thin stream of amber liquid into my mouth.
“Swallow for me,” he drawls.
The whisky burns my throat, and I hold back a cough.
This is worlds apart from the beer last night.
Instant fire floods my body and my veins buzz.
Alcohol spreads through the network of my nerves, washing any doubt from my mind.
I want this.
And I want him.
That tone, those orders, and the wicked glint in his eyes…
He hasn’t even touched me down there yet, but I’m soaked.
Am I dreaming again?
“Keep swallowing, darlin’. You’ll drink until I say you’re done.”
I nod, but my movement is too eager and some cool whisky flows onto my chest.
I startle, choke, and launch into a humiliating coughing fit.
He takes a swig of whisky while his broad hand gently slaps my back until I’m better, but his lips wrapping around the bottle have me hyperventilating for an entirely different reason.
I need to feel them on mine.
It’s like I’m suffocating without his kiss, like only he can breathe life into me.
The stranger leaves the bottle on the sideboard and pushes up his hat with a knuckle.
One hand on my waist, the other around the back of my neck, he pulls me in.
The impact against his brawny chest rattles through me and the next moment, his mouth crashes into mine.
I taste copper.
He must have split my lip.
The scrape stings as he opens his mouth and whisky flows into mine, but I still swallow.
His teeth drag over the small wound before his tongue swarms mine.
He tosses his hat onto the bed and claims me with his lips like a man who’d rather die than let me go.
This isn’t a kiss.
It’s domination.
His rough hands rove over my body, and I stretch to wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the curls at his nape.
He tweaks my nipples through my dress, and they pebble into sensitive peaks.
His fingers on my back slide down my spine, palming my ass, pressing my hips against him.
I feel something hard and gasp into his mouth.
Is that his dick?
A knot builds in my throat.
He feels larger than anyone I’ve been with, and one urgent question shoves into the forefront of my mind.
Will he even fit?
Like a predator cornering his prey before going in for the kill, he pushes me back against the wall.
He breaks the kiss and my belly tingles as I see my red lipstick smeared across his mouth.
I don’t know why, but it reminds me of blood.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me while he hikes up my dress and drags a thick finger along my seam.
I let out a pathetic whine.
My damp panties are the only thing separating us.
“You’re practically dripping, darlin’,” he murmurs, a dark look flickering across his face.
“What makes a pretty lil thing like you scream, hmm?”
God, this man is the devil himself.
How obscene.
How shameless.
How indescribably sexy .
His left hand slips under my panties, and his thumb plays with my clit, circling it slowly.
Slower.
Even slower.
I pant with need, bucking my hips against his palm.
I have never gotten this wet this fast.
Normally, it takes a lot of foreplay to get me going.
In the haze of lust and whisky, I wonder if I’ve always been with the wrong guys.
But damn, this feels so right.
He parts my pussy lips, slick and ready for him, and pushes two digits into me as far as he can reach, which—given the size of his hands—is fucking far.
I twist a hand into his shirt as I clench around him.
“You’ll have to take a lot more girth than that to fit my cock into your tight cunt,” he whispers.
“You’re so delicate… I can’t wait to break you.”
He pulls out just to shove into me again.
Three fingers at least.
The stretch burns a bit and I groan, but he curls his digits forward.
“Oh, shit… that’s good…” I ramble.
His smirk widens, and he starts finger-fucking me.
Hard .
Every brutal upward thrust has me bouncing on my toes, crying out.
He scissors his fingers, stretching me, preparing me for him.
I can hear how wet I am.
I’m so wracked with need, I can’t bring myself to be ashamed of the sounds coming from between my legs and out of my mouth.
Squelching.
Whining.
Whimpers.
Moans.
My eyes roll and I give in to every sensation when a glint of metal pulls me into reality.
I freeze.
My mouth hangs open with shallow breaths.
His hunting knife.
It’s right in front of my face .
“Aw, darlin’, are you afraid?” he mocks, biting his lip as he grips the bone-carved hilt tighter.
“The fear on your face makes you even prettier. Maybe I should scare you a lil more, huh?”
“I-I don’t—”
I whimper as he brings the knife closer to my neck.
A cold caress slides along my throat, and my body lights up with panic and arousal.
Every muscle inside me tenses.
The stranger leans in close, still fucking me with his other hand, and his breath is hot on my ear as he whispers, “Oh, my little dove. You just got even tighter. Does a knife against your throat turn you on? Do you get off on death threats?”
I don’t dare to move or answer.
The blade scrapes along the front of my neck, leaving a line of heat and a trickle of warmth.
Shit, this time he did injure me, but it’s a precise, careful cut, sending silky shivers of pain along my skin.
He makes violence feel like tenderness.
“Admit it,” he rasps.
“Admit that you almost came from my knife against your throat.” His words shouldn’t be as seductive as they are.
I swallow, and my voice comes out hoarse.
“It-it’s true… your knife against my neck brought me to the edge.”
“That’s my good, dirty girl,” he murmurs and something inside me preens at his praise.
His fingers retreat from my pussy and he lowers the knife to my hips.
He slices through my panties, letting them fall to the floor, but he doesn’t cut me again.
Instead, he rears his hand and the blade back, grinning.
My eyes widen.
“W-what are you—”
The knife shoots forward and I cry out, expecting the worst, but a thunk sounds.
When I glance to the side, my legs wobble from relief.
The blade is stuck in the drywall, right by my head.
“You should see that look on your face,” he says, chuckling.
“Fuck, you are divine when you think I’m about to murder you.” His amusement is cold and sadistic, and my stomach twists.
Because he does scare me.
And because it scares me more that I enjoy this.
The threats.
The brutality.
The roughness.
He bends to kiss the crook of my neck.
His stubble scratches me, and I shudder as his tongue slithers along the cut he carved earlier.
“You’re delicious, little dove. I can taste the terror in your blood.”
Oh God, what did I get myself into ?