Chapter 4
Ethan
Dumping my cum in her tight pussy is a fucking revelation. It’s nothing like how I imagined. It’s fucking better. I drain my balls so completely inside her, I don’t think there will be anything left.
She has passed out, which is fine. That means I get to look around. It’s taken everything to stop myself and Aidan from breaking into her home and invading her space, but I didn’t want to walk through her home without her here. It’s a violation. She has invited me in now. I belong here now.
I pull my cock out of her, soaking wet, and crouch, lowering her legs gently.
I spread them and bite my bottom lip as I watch my cum pooling out of her.
Gently, I scoop it up and push it back inside her.
She wanted me to use protection, but that wasn’t happening.
I needed to feel her. I needed to feel every inch of her bare pussy around my cock.
I needed my cum inside her. She doesn’t have to worry.
I haven’t touched another woman in a year, ever since we discovered who she was.
Standing up, I move straight to the en-suite and push the door open. I look around the small space. Shower, sink, toilet. Slightly skew cabinet. I open the doors and take in the contents. Toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, painkillers, and four boxes of antidepressants, unopened, are stacked up neatly.
Interesting.
I pick one up and turn it over, casting my gaze over the bottle next to it.
I replace the box and pick up the over-the-counter bottle.
It’s a herbal thing that claims to help depression and anxiety.
It’s half full. I put it back and close the doors, looking at the makeup strewn in the sink.
Selecting a black eyeliner, I pick it up and carry it back to the bedroom.
Annabelle is still passed out on the bed. I lean over and drag her up to the middle, arranging her so she is lying flat on her back.
I straddle her and pull the cap off the eyeliner. Just above her shaven pussy, I press the tip into her skin and write my name in capital letters.
My lips curve up. “Perfect. Mine.”
I recap it and throw it on the bed beside her.
My cock is stirring again, seeing my name on her.
I lean down to grab my phone from my pants pocket and flick it to video mode.
I grip my cock and hit record, jerking off over her pussy with my name in the shot.
Aidan will be murderous. It will amuse me.
I groan as my cock gets harder, still covered in her juice. I make loud noises for Aidan’s benefit, increasing my speed. It doesn’t take long for me to come again. I make sure the video gets the shot of my cum splashing all over her pussy, all over my name, before I press stop and send it to Aidan.
Then I chuck the phone on the bed next to the eyeliner. Pulling the duvet over her, I cover her body from my sight, or I might end up fucking her unconscious form. Not that it’s a turn-off, but it’s a little early in the relationship for that.
I resume my search. Wardrobe, dresser, drawers, under the bed. I find a box of vibrators still pristine. I shove them back under. She won’t need them now anyway.
On top of the dresser sits a framed photograph of her with a woman who has the same eyes. Her mother. Annabelle looks younger, softer, untouched by the kind of loss that hollows a person out from the inside. I pick up the frame and study the older woman’s face.
I set the frame back exactly where it was and open the top drawer. Underwear. Plain, practical, mostly cotton. A few nicer sets tucked at the back that look unworn. I shut it and move to the next. T-shirts, leggings, jumpers shoved in.
My phone vibrates on the bed.
I pick it up.
Aidan: I’ll fucking kill you.
A smile drags at my mouth.
Me: Try it.
I throw the phone back down and pick up my clothes, getting dressed slowly, meticulously.
I pocket my phone and move to the other side of the bed.
I pull the drawer out of the base and narrow my eyes.
Pulling out a folder, I search through it.
Newspaper clippings, notes, phone bills and a journal.
Taking out the journal, I shove the folder back into the drawer and stand up, flicking through it.
Annabelle’s handwriting fills the pages. Every thought she has ever had about her mother’s murder.
Leaving the bedroom, I flick the light off and close the door, making my way silently downstairs, reading the journal as I go.
The notes become more rambling, more chaotic as I flick through. Names. Dates. Surveillance notes on the people her mother worked with. She has accused everyone in these pages, including the postman and the guy at Tesco who smiled once at her mother at the checkout.
Everyone except the man who did it.
She won’t even know his name.
Moving into the kitchen, my eyes focused on the words in front of me, I turn on the light and cross to the other side.
I rest my hand on the counter, then pause as it hits something sticky.
I pause and lift my hand, glaring at the offending blob of marmalade.
Casting my gaze around, I shudder. It doesn’t look like this room has been cleaned in days.
The sink is stacked with dishes, the counters are full of crumbs and blobs, the bread is left wide open, and the milk is still out.
“Right,” I mutter and slam the book shut, placing it on top of the breadbin, which appears to be the only clean surface, if a little dusty.
Rolling up my sleeves, I cross over to the sink, open the cupboard underneath and pull out cleaning products and cloths.
First things first, I open the dishwasher and my eye twitches.
It’s stacked to the brim with dirty dishes, not having been run in a while by the looks of it.
I throw in a tablet, set it to run an intensive wash, and get started on the rest of the kitchen.
I start at one end and work my way around, cleaning, scrubbing, tidying, putting away.
Throwing away rotten food in the fridge and taking out the rubbish.
I do her laundry, fold the dry stuff and stack it in the basket ready to take upstairs.
The living room is next. Polishing, dusting, stacking books, and everything except running the vacuum around. That can be done later, so I don’t wake her.
The downstairs toilet is fairly clean. She doesn’t use it often. The dining room is the same. Nothing a bit of polish and a duster won’t fix.
By the time dawn is creaking over another hot summer’s morning, the downstairs of her home is pristine, just the way I like it.
Picking up the journal, I flick the kettle on and make a mug of coffee, which I sip slowly as I take the journal into the living room to read.
I sit in her armchair with her mug warming my hand and read every word.
She keeps timelines. Lists of victims. Newspaper dates. The names of detectives. Questions with no answers. Why this street? Why that age range? Why women alone? Why was my mother taken from here and not somewhere else? She circles things. Underlines them until the pen nearly tears the paper.
Then it shifts.
It stops being just grief and starts becoming an obsession.
I turn another page.
It becomes raw, messy, directionless. She writes like she is trying to claw sense out of grief and getting blood under her nails for the effort.
She has written about the anniversary. About the way summer makes her feel sick. About not sleeping. About seeing cars slow near the house and wondering if it means anything. That would be Aidan or me. Perhaps we weren’t as covert as we should’ve been.
She writes about calling the police and hearing pity in their voices. She hates pity.
I respect that.
Pity is useless. It softens the edges of truth until nothing sharp enough remains to cut through the lie. She does not want comfort from strangers. She wants blood. Answers. A name.
I turn another page and find the same sentence written three times.
I know he is still out there.
She’s right. He is.
The final page of writing chills me.
I just want to die.
“No, Tinks. That is not an option,” I murmur. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
I close the journal and take it back upstairs, sneaking back into her room. She is still asleep as I return it to the folder under the bed.
She stirs as I close the drawer, and I check the time. She has work today. She will be up soon.
I make sure she has a glass of fresh water and two painkillers by the side of her bed for when she wakes, and then I head back downstairs to make sure she has eaten before she leaves this house for the day.