13. Maya
13
MAYA
I t’s him. My heart hammers as I wake to the familiar scent of Adrian. I’m bound, naked, against the sheets. I know it’s a dream, but it feels so real. Adrian is there, his eyes bright with longing, as he runs his hands over my body.
“Adrian,” I breathe his name like a prayer. He leans in, his lips brushing mine, in a fierce and hungry kiss. I moan into it, wanting more. He pulls back, a smile playing on his lips, and his eyes sparkle with mischief.
“You want me, little critic?” His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. I nod, unable to speak, as his hand trails down my stomach, his fingers leaving fire trails across my skin.
“Tell me, Maya,” He demands, his fingers reaching the lips of my pussy. I whimper as he teases me, circling but not touching where I need him most. “Tell me how much you want my touch. How much you crave my cock inside you.”
“Please, Adrian...” I arch my back, desperate for release. “I want you. All of you. Now.”
He doesn’t keep me waiting any longer. In one swift movement, he’s inside me, his girth stretching me, his thrusts powerful and deep. My fingers dig into his back as he moves with a savage rhythm. It’s hunger incarnate, a far cry from the refined sensuality of our previous encounters. This is untamed and desperate, and I love it.
I match his passion, moving with him, and there is an unspoken understanding between us. His breath is hot on my neck, and his lips taste the salt of my skin. He knows where to touch, how to move, and bring me to the brink.
“Adrian, I...” I can’t form the words as the pleasure builds, threatening to consume me.
“Come for me, Maya,” he growls, his voice hoarse. “Let me feel it.”
His words guide me over the edge as ecstasy claims me completely. He follows, his own release intense and violent. We’re both breathless, spent, but still, he doesn’t pull away. He whispers dark, sensual promises in my ear, and I shiver, my body already responding to his words.
Then, slowly, I wake, the dream fading, leaving me restless. I roll over, my heart still pounding. The sheets are tangled around me, and I’m sticky with sweat. It takes a moment to remember where I am. It was just a dream. But it felt so real.
The doorbell rings. My heart skips as I jump out of bed and grab my robe, wrapping it around myself before answering the door.
A delivery man holds an extravagant bouquet of deep red roses mixed with black calla lilies. The arrangement screams Adrian—elegant, dramatic, with a sinister edge.
“Sign here, please.”
I hesitate before I scrawl my signature. I bring the flowers inside, their heady perfume filling my apartment. A black envelope nestles among the blooms, my name written in Adrian’s precise silver script.
My little critic,
Join me for a Valentine’s Day lunch at the boutique today at noon. Let me explain everything you’ve been running from. You deserve the truth, and I promise complete honesty.
No games. No tricks. Just answers.
-A
The card falls from my fingers. My throat tightens as I catch the faintest whiff of chocolate from the paper. That familiar craving stirs in my chest—the need to understand him, to taste the darkness that drew me in.
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his number. The smart choice would be to ignore this, to keep my distance. But the questions that have plagued me since that night demand answers. What drives him to kill? How does he choose his victims? And why me?
The roses watch me, their deep crimson petals like drops of blood against the black lilies. Everything Adrian does carries meaning. This isn’t just a Valentine’s Day gesture—it’s a message. The roses represent passion, but those black lilies mean death and resurrection.
My fingers are unsure as I type.
I’ll be there.
The response comes instantly.
I look forward to it.
I sink onto my couch, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake. But I need to know the truth, even if it destroys me.
My phone buzzes against the coffee table, breaking through my spiral of thoughts. Amelia’s name flashes on the screen.
Hey girl! Valentine’s plans tonight? We’re both tragically single, so I say we hit up that new wine bar on Michigan Ave. Drown our sorrows in some expensive reds?
I smile despite myself. Trust Amelia to try cheering me up, even if she doesn’t know the full extent of what’s happening. A night out sounds perfect—and gives me the perfect excuse to keep my lunch with Adrian brief.
Count me in. I’ve got a lunch meeting, but I’m free after three.
I text back, careful not to mention who the meeting is with. Amelia would freak out if she knew I was seeing Adrian again.
Yessss! Meet me at my place at seven? We can pre-game with that bottle of prosecco I’ve been saving.
Perfect.
I reply, already feeling lighter. A girls’ night is exactly what I need to clear my head after whatever Adrian has planned.
My phone buzzes again.
Wear that black dress that makes your ass look amazing. Never know who might be out tonight
I laugh and shake my head. Trust Amelia to already be planning my outfit.
Will do. See you at seven
Having plans for Valentines night makes me feel more in control. Adrian can’t trap me into a date or keep me longer than necessary if I have somewhere else to be. I check the time—three hours until I face him again. Just enough time to shower, dress, and steel my nerves for whatever story he plans to cook up about the blood in his fridge.
I stand before my closet, fingers trailing over fabrics as I consider my options. This meeting must scream “professional food critic,” not “woman who’s been intimately entangled with a dangerous chocolatier.”
My charcoal pencil skirt and cream silk blouse make the cut. Conservative and refined, this outfit is what I wear to five-star restaurant reviews and important editorial meetings. I slip on sheer stockings, checking for runs, before stepping into my most practical black heels.
I sweep my hair into a tight chignon—no loose, romantic tendrils today. My makeup is minimal and precise: matte foundation, subtle rose lipstick, and just enough mascara to look polished without being provocative.
“Get answers and get out,” I tell my reflection, fastening small pearl studs in my ears. “Keep it professional.”
A text lights up my phone screen from Adrian.
Looking forward to our lunch.
I ignore how my stomach flips at his words and tuck my recorder into my leather portfolio case along with a fresh notebook. If he’s finally ready to explain himself, I’ll document everything.
The black lilies watch me from their vase as I gather my things. Their petals seem darker now, almost consuming the red roses they’re paired with. I shake off the chill that runs down my spine. It’s just flowers. Just lunch. Just answers.
I check my appearance one final time. The woman in the mirror looks composed, professional, and untouchable. Perfect. No one would guess she’s dreamed of being bound and taken by the murderer she’s meeting. No one would know how his darkness calls to her.
My Uber app shows the car is five minutes away—just enough time to touch up my lipstick and straighten my skirt. I’ve interviewed countless chefs and restaurant owners. This is no different. I’m Maya Kendall, a respected food critic, not his plaything.
Not anymore.