3. Chapter Two #2
I turn to the other task: system maintenance for Kairo.
Reviewing the logs, searching for errors, intrusions, or anything that might betray my presence.
There’s nothing. The firmware is up to date, the encryption unbreakable.
I run a silent diagnostic, then wipe the trail of my access with a custom script. Every byte, every echo, purged.
Next: schedule. Julianna’s surgical rotation is locked in for the next three weeks.
I have her calendar. She leaves the condo at precisely 6:35 AM on weekdays, returning at variable times depending on caseload.
Thursdays she stops at the pharmacy, Saturdays she visits a bakery three blocks south.
Sundays are her “off” days, she rarely leaves the apartment.
Her pattern is set. It is only a matter of occupying the empty spaces.
With all my work done and accounted for, I turn to the real indulgence.
Standing and stretching my arms, and walk to the bedroom.
The space is cold, the bed made with military precision.
On the far nightstand, next to my alarm clock, lies a slip of fabric: Julianna’s underwear.
Black lace, minimal coverage, the fabric still holding a faint trace of her.
I pick it up, holding it between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the elasticity, the softness, the warmth leeched from my own skin. I bring it to my nose and inhale.
The scent is immediate, unmistakable. Clean, with an undertone of sweat and a top note of her cunt. It makes my mouth water. I close my eyes, let it wash over me. My pupils dilate. My body tightens. I resist the urge to do anything more.
Control is everything.
Setting the underwear down like a sacred artifact, I stare at it, picturing her on her knees at the foot of the bed, hands bound behind her back, eyes lifted to meet mine. Her body writhing beneath my weight, the taste of her on my tongue, the sound of her breath as I take her apart.
The fantasy is not enough.
I go back to the workstation, open the file labeled CABIN. The logistics are flawless. All supplies pre-arranged for delivery, transport arranged, isolation guaranteed. I’m more organized than Kairo or Knox.
I run through the plan again, searching for weaknesses. There are none. The only variable is her. If she isn’t where she is supposed to be, that could throw a spanner in the works.
But she’s nothing if not consistent. It hardly crosses my mind that her surgeries will get postponed and people will probably die.
I’ll die if I don’t have her, so I don’t give a fuck who will die without her.
Looking back at the underwear on the pillow, then back to her frozen image on my monitor.
The hunger is a physical thing, gnawing at the walls of my self-control.
Soon.
Very soon.
The time has come to make sure Kairo understands I won’t be available for his grunt work. I dial, wait. He picks up, his voice raspy, Harbor moaning on the other end.
Fucking heathens.
“You finally crawling out of your fucking hole, or are you just bored?”
I don’t bother answering his provocation. “I am going offline for a while. Don’t contact me.”
“Aw, Creed, you wound me. What is it this time, another one of your, ”
“Don’t fucking finish that sentence.”
He snorts. In the background is the metallic pop of a beer can, the shuffling of feet. “Whatever. You need to watch security. Slade’s still in Africa. Dumb fuck.”
“No. I’m going offline.”
There is a pause, a charged silence. “You really think you can just… disappear, man? That’s not how this shit works. Not anymore.”
I let the silence hang, heavy. Eventually, he breaks. “Fine. Be a ghost, see if I care. But you owe me. Big time.”
“Noted.” Though I don’t. I don’t owe him shit.
I hang up, close my eyes, and count to ten. Kairo is chaos, a necessary evil, but at least he is predictable. I log the call, wipe the device, and return it to its place.
Now: focus.
The shower calls my name and I go through the motions, anticipation curling in my stomach My body is a network of raw nerves, every synapse tuned to what comes next. I dress in black. Always black. The ritual calms me.
At the workstation, I queue up the feed from Julianna’s condo. She’s standing in her room, shedding her clothes. For a moment, she simply looks at herself, no judgment, no vanity. Just the cold assessment of a surgeon before a delicate cut.
She moves to the window, opens it a crack, then returns. She lies on her back, arms spread, a perfect fucking portrait of pale skin against dark sheets. Her eyes are closed. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the minute twitch of her fingers. She’s nervous, but not afraid.
My cock is rigid, pressed hard against my waistband. I allow myself a single touch, hand sliding under the hem, the pressure building. I don’t stroke it yet, only grip, tight, until the pulse becomes a roar.
On the screen, she lifts one hand to her breast, cups it, fingers grazing the nipple.
The other hand slides down, slow, over the plane of her abdomen, resting at the top of her hip.
She pauses, then slips her fingers between her legs as they fall open, exposed in front of the camera.
She knows I’m watching. She likes it. This show is all for me and the thought almost makes me come in my pants.
I exhale. I want to know the texture of that skin, the heat, the softness. I watch as her hand moves in small, practiced circles, the rhythm growing faster, the breath catching in her throat. Her back arches. Her lips part. She is silent, but her face betrays everything.
Matching her motion, my own hand moves, measured and precise. I watch her eyes, fluttering closed, then open again, fixed on a point only she can see. Her chest heaves, coloring a pretty pink.
The camera catches the glint of wetness, the shine of her arousal. Moving my hand, I stroke myself slowly, then harder, timing each movement to hers. The pressure builds as my balls tighten. The need to make her choke on my dick is deadly, but I wait, wait for her to come.
She rubs her clit faster, and I watch with rapt attention as she comes, a silent scream, body convulsing on the bed. I come with her, the force of it overwhelming, shuddering through every muscle. Watching her as she finishes is everything.
Everything.
On the screen, she lies still, one hand on her chest, the other limp at her side. Her breathing slows. Her eyes close.
I sit back, clean myself, and watch her sleep.
She is perfect.
She has dug herself into my skin and whatever little devil lives inside her will be devoured by mine…
Soon, little kitten, very soon.