Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Skylar
Fuck. Why the hell did I get so hard when he took control like that? And when he shoved me onto the bed, trapping me under his weight? I swear, I’ve never wanted to be fucked by a guy so bad before. Do I have a kidnapping kink?
Testing the rope, I can’t help but laugh. I might be bound again, but I can totally escape.
The house is too quiet. If it weren’t for the blinking camera in the corner of the room, a part of me would wonder if he’d left. I used to have the same system, so it was no shock to me when I heard the signature buzz of the camera zooming in. The fact that he was watching me was a total turn-on.
Footsteps sound in the hallway, and the door creaks open. From here, I can see his shadowy form. He looks more relaxed, confident, almost as if he did something to ease all the tension. I chuckle. “Did you like the show?”
Shaking his head, he walks past me. As soon as he clicks his bathroom door behind him, I move. Working quickly, I unbind myself right as the shower turns on. In the distance, I hear the curtain opening and closing. I’m assuming that he’s stepping into the hot water now.
When I finally get my hands free, I sit up, smirking at how easy that was.
He must have been so preoccupied by my little show earlier that he didn’t even realize all my thrusting and grinding was a distraction.
Jericho was in such a hurry to tie me up that I made sure to kick and thrash enough to shove my wrists side by side, giving me the perfect opportunity to create a small pocket of slack.
If my wrists had been bound on top of one another, I might not have had enough room to work myself free.
Rotating my wrists against the stiff rope definitely left a mark, but at least I was able to eventually squirm out of my binds.
There’s nothing I can do about my torn shirt or missing silk scarf. Buttoning my pants, I don’t waste any time while he’s in the shower, sneaking off into the hallway. My feet don’t make a sound on the hardwood.
As I walk past a slightly open door, I can’t help but peer inside.
I’m intrigued when I note all the lit-up computers in the room.
Pushing past the door out of curiosity, I step inside.
It’s a surveillance room. It’s clean and clinical.
Everything is organized, obsessively so.
I run a finger along the edge of his desk.
No dust.
No stray hairs.
I have to give it to the man. At least he isn’t a messy killer. Assuming my big brute has actually killed before.
My gaze trails up to the monitors, and giddy laughter bubbles out of me when I see just how much he zoomed in on my writhing body on the bed.
But to my utter delight, I notice the screen on the far right, instantly recognizing the video.
The tab is bookmarked, and I get the impression this might be one of his favorite videos of mine.
It’s a porn shoot I did with one of my co-stars.
Monty Stylez is a pretty little twink who lets me do what I want.
He’s the perfect little sub. I work with him more often than others, because his tastes align with mine.
The whole ‘if I can’t have it, then at least he can’ mentality comes into play.
Monty is a sweet and slightly bratty bottom.
The person who I wish I could be in the privacy of my own home. With someone I trust.
I press play, letting Monty’s moans fill the room.
Opening the drawers to his desk, I can’t help but snoop through them. I should be trying to escape, but I’m dying to know what makes this man tick.
In one of the drawers, I spot a small jar of liquid and a few syringes.
Immediately recognizing the same sedative he used on me, I smirk.
Opening the jar, then twisting the pendant of my necklace, I sprinkle some white amethyst powder into the sedative before holding it up to the light.
Tugging a cap off one of the needles, I inject it into the jar, measuring out the exact amount Jericho should have used on me, based on how quickly I woke up.
I want to send him a message. It’s important to me that he realizes I was fully aware of his actions and I’m not someone to mess with.
Recapping the needle, I continue my exploration.
The bottom drawer is locked, but it’s a simple latch. It doesn’t take me long to open it at all. I expect to find money or maybe even a weapon, but instead, there are several manila folders. I place them on the desk and begin flipping through them.
I freeze, my breath catching. Neatly sleeved in plastic are rows of small, typed slips of paper. I recognize the font immediately from the dark web. There’s no fucking way. I flip through the files, pulling out a list of people who have been murdered throughout the years.
I immediately recognize all of them, but a few stand out: Thomas Ridley, Vance McCarthy, Leo Fuller, and Michael Long. All rapists and murderers who were taken out by my favorite hitman. A small slip of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and observe it.
It’s a list of victims that Franko hurt. A sharp gasp leaves my lips when I spot my sister’s name. My heart rate is through the roof, and I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Is Jericho The Cleaner?
There’s no way. While most killers are messy and driven by a frantic need for blood, The Cleaner is different.
He’s organized, a professional, a ghost. Or maybe a vigilante is a better word.
He goes after the vile monsters the law won’t touch and balances the scales.
I’ve spent years looking up to him. There’s no way the amateur who botched the kill with Franko is The Cleaner.
There’s no way the infamous hitman would have kidnapped me and bound me in such a way that would be easy to escape. There’s no way, right?
I’ve spent hours in my own dark bedroom planning my kills while wondering how someone like The Cleaner manages to leave everything so pristine while leaving a message so loud.
I flip through the photos and the surveillance shots of all the people I assume he murdered.
These aren’t the trophies of a madman. These are the files of an executioner.
The knobs of the shower twist, and the sound of the water shuts off. Quickly, I place everything back into its proper folders and shove the drawer closed. I don’t have time to escape. I tiptoe back into the bedroom, contemplating whether I should pretend to bind myself.
But if chances are he is The Cleaner, and he’s finally on his game, he might notice and take matters into his own hands. If that’s the case, it would be better for me to be completely unbound with a fighting chance.
Fuck, what if he is The Cleaner? Excitement buzzes through me. Footsteps sound, and I know he’s about to walk out that door. At the last second, I make a stupid decision. Instead of fleeing, I sit on the corner of his bed, displaying myself like an offering.
As soon as he steps out of the bathroom, it’s as if my world tilts on its axis. I’m no longer in control. Seeing this man in nothing but a towel, with steam billowing behind him and water clinging to his muscles, has me swallowing hard.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
His eyes jerk up to mine. “How the fuck did you get out of your bindings?”
I give him a playful smirk, but I can already tell my voice is still shaky as soon as I speak. “You know, your silk sheets feel like a dream, but your knot-tying skills are quite lacking,” I tease.
He growls at my joke, but I like to think this is how the big brute laughs.
I’m still so turned on from our whatever-the-fuck that was earlier that I am extremely grateful I buttoned up my pants.
“I said, how the fuck did you get out of those ropes?” he repeats. I chuckle softly, feeling like I’ve gained the upper hand again.
Standing, I saunter toward him, reveling in the way he takes a step back.
He swallows hard, and I can’t help but appreciate all the beads of water dripping down his chest. When my eyes trail back up to his, I notice a fire there.
There’s no way this amateur is The Cleaner.
He would never be this distracted or unprofessional.
He’s probably just some superfan trying to mimic his style. I trace a finger through a few droplets of water and caress his chest. He growls, capturing my hand in his. My heart is pounding, and my chub is fully erect now. Holy crap, I think I really do have a kidnapping kink.
My stupid, stupid body wants him to take control and bind me up all over again, and do whatever the hell he had planned.
But truth be told, there could be a good chance his only plan is killing me once he has his wicked way.
And what’s even more dangerous than a stupid brute ready to kill? My lusty thoughts, that’s what.
Before I can let my body truly win, I yank him toward me, closing the distance between our lips.
Fuck, I want to kiss him so bad. I lean forward, and to my delight, so does he.
I smirk in triumph and pull the needle out of my pocket.
Right at the last second, just as he closes his eyes, I pop the cap and return the favor.
His body jerks violently against me, probably registering the sting in his neck. His head recoils, and his blue eyes bore into mine.
“Well, fuck,” he slurs, damp towel falling to the floor. “I guess karma really is a bitch.”
I laugh. A genuine, full laugh before my lips pull into a wide smile. It’s something I haven’t done in forever. Then his striking blue eyes drop down to my lips as if he’s just as shocked that I’m smiling.