Chapter 7
Seven
Ryell
Dark brown hair.
Trim, fit body.
Naked.
Hard cock jutting skyward.
Fuck-me eyes staring back at me.
Lips plump from my mouth ravaging his.
Legs spread to show a peek of his tight fucking hole.
The sketch I made of Lane from memory is almost perfect.
Almost.
But I want to sketch him while I gaze upon him, watching how he looks while I draw every dip and groove of his body.
I’ve never desired to sketch someone without killing them or to sketch someone living. But something about Lane pulls me in.
I didn’t expect him to come home with me so willingly. I was fully prepared to follow him home and kidnap him from his parking garage. Rope, tape, and a paralytic was already packed in my van.
When he told me to take him back to mine, I planned to knock him over the head as soon as he crossed the threshold, toss him in my cell, and taunt him before I killed him, posing his body where his FBI team could find him.
But when I kissed him, when I got a taste of his lips, I wanted more.
I didn’t care about sex but fucking Lane—being rough with his mouth, feeling his ass around my dick and sucking him down while I fucked him—was like nothing I’ve ever had before. The sex was off the fucking charts. I wonder if I’ll be able to do it again.
Probably not. I don’t plan to keep Lane alive long enough to get him back on my dick.
That fucking sucks because Lane was the most perfect lay I’ve ever had.
I’m glad I went through the trouble of disguising myself last night, though Lane almost discovered my wig when I was kissing him against my front door.
But the deception was necessary. With Lane now missing, they’ll go to the last place he was seen and start asking questions.
The people who saw me will remember a man with gray eyes, brown hair, and a hook nose.
The prosthetic nose was a bitch to apply.
No one will know it was me, a man with husky-blue eyes and blond hair and a straight nose.
Even the ID I showed the bartender was a fake. She should do a better job of checking the pictures, not just the date of birth. Then she would have seen that me and the man on the ID looked nothing alike.
Too bad for Lane. I genuinely enjoyed his company and fucking him was phenomenal.
I watch as he sleeps in the cell, his chest rising and falling evenly. When I dosed him, I used half of what I’d normally would on my victims, so he should come around soon.
Glancing down at the sketch, I trace the lines with my eyes, enjoying Lane’s naked form.
I enjoyed dominating him last night, making him mine, if just for a few hours.
Lane trusted his pleasure to me, and I gave him more than he could handle.
I could tell by how quickly he fell asleep after I rolled off him that he’s never been worked over like that.
I should have waited to have him one more time before I threw him in the cell.
Oh well, can’t squirt the milk back up a cow’s udders. What’s done is done.
I wait around for about twenty more minutes for Lane to wake up.
He’s cautious, his breathing changes imperceptibly as he comes to, though I notice it.
He’s probably trying to figure out his surroundings and how he can get out of the situation he’s in.
But he’s bound by his right arm and right ankle to the wall, the chains having some give so he can use the toilet that’s in the opposite corner of the cell.
Chuckling, I close the sketch pad and set it beside me, crossing my ankle over my knee. “I know you’re awake, Lane. Let’s not play these games, hm?”
He blows out a long breath, then sits up slowly. His eyes ping-pong around the room, as if to chronicle everything around him. That won’t do him any good; he won’t be leaving this room alive to tell anyone what he sees.
When he swings his eyes over to me, they go flinty. “What is this place?”
I spread my arms out as if showing off his basement “It’s your new home. At least for a little while.”
“Who are you, and why did you force me down here?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I forced you down here? Or were you snooping and ended up here by chance?”
He juts his jaw out stubbornly, looking at the chains on his wrist and ankle. His throat works as he swallows roughly. “You’re aware I’m an FBI agent, right? My department will—”
“Do nothing,” I interrupt. “They won’t know where you are or who you left with.
Notice anything different about me?” I lean forward so I’m no longer sitting in shadow.
His eyes bounce around my face, taking in my features.
He gasps, and I feel his fear flowing through me like a physical thing, though he covers it well.
He sees my features are now different, so identification will be difficult, if not downright impossible.
We’re quiet for a few minutes, Lane looking at his hands as if he’s thinking up his next move.
I want to knock him off-kilter even more, so when I leave him here, he’ll be on edge. “Did you like my gifts?”
“Gifts? What did…” I see when it clicks in his head, and his eyes widen. “You were in my apartment. You…you fucked with my sheets.”
I nod and smirk, almost proud of him for coming to that conclusion so quickly.
“Yes. I was there. Then I picked you up at a bar and fucked you until you passed out.” A flush blooms over his skin, and he sways forward as if he wants to reach for me but stops before he can make a fool of himself.
“But you were supposed to come get me. Remember?”
He scrunches his face up for a moment, then it pales when he realizes who I am. “No,” he breathes, the fluttering of his pulse apparent even from a distance.
I smile, my real smile, not the one I show the public every day. “Yes, I’m The Poser. I really do hate that name. But it fits, no?”
Lane doesn’t answer, trying hard to school his features, but his efforts aren’t working. The fear is evident on his face, so strong I can smell it.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asks, his voice hard and defiant, but not enough to cover the tremble in his tone.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I plan to sketch his death, then act it out, but something stays my hand.
For the first time, I want a living model to pose before he stops breathing.
When I look at Lane, I don’t see him dead.
I see him spread out for me, gazing back with eyes filled with lust.
I shake off the thought. I will kill Agent Bauer. If for no other reason than he knows too much.
Tapping my index finger against my chin, I say, “I’m not sure yet. Keep you here for a little while. Play with you. Pose you.”
Narrowing his eyes at me, he growls, “You only pose your corpses, and I won’t die down here.”
Standing up, I shrug and say, “You will if I want you to.” I step nearer the cell, not close enough that he can touch me but close enough so he can see me fully. So he can see how hard my dick is. “You posed for me so beautifully last night. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
The fight doesn’t leave his eyes. “That was before I found out you were a sick son of a bitch.”
I grin at him. “Yeah, I’m something. But trust me, Lane. Before I kill you, you will pose for me. And then I’ll fuck you.”
He walks over to the cage bars and says, “Never going to fucking happen.”
Roaming my gaze over his body, I walk backward and say, “We’ll see.”
Then I turn to exit the room.
“Fucking get back here and do what you really want to do, you coward!” he shouts at my back. “If you wanna kill me, fucking kill me! Don’t be a bitch! Hey! Come back here!”
I listen to him shout but don’t give him any attention. He’ll tire himself out eventually.
After I shut and lock the basement door with a remote lock and a deadbolt, I pull out my phone. I dial Jacob’s number and bring it to my ear. He answers on the third ring.
“What’s up?” he says.
“Just want to let you know that you and Alayna can’t do any surprise visits. I have…a long-term guest.”
Grunting, Jacob asks, “How long-term?”
I shrug, though he can’t see me. “Until I get rid of him.”
“Two, three days?”
That’s my normal schedule, but Lane will probably last much longer. Long enough for me to sink my dick back into him. Then I’ll pose him after I slit his throat.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. Just…don’t…I need some time to play with him.”
Jacob is quiet on the other end of the phone. I know he hasn’t hung up because I can hear his breathing.
Finally, he says, “Okay. But be fucking careful, Ry.”
“I will.”
“What’s so special about this one?”
“It’s the FBI agent that threatened me on the news.”
Jacob sputters. “Ry, what the fuck?”
“What?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, but failing.
“Fuck, let me make sure I can break you out of prison if shit goes south. You should really get rid of him, though. Soon. No playing. Cut his fucking head off and be done.”
A growl I don’t expect bubbles up my throat, and Jacob scoffs on the other end of the phone.
“No. Lane is fucking mine, understand? I will fucking kill anyone that tries to take him from me before I can kill him myself.”
“Lane. Nice name,” Jacob says, as if I didn’t just threaten him and anyone else that wants to test the theory. “Okay, I’ll get a contingency plan in order. Be careful, little brother.”
“Always,” I say, then hang up the phone.