Chapter Fifteen #2
“It’s hard to explain. I wanted to change the narrative.
Twenty-three women were murdered, and it took me a long time to figure it out because I felt so disgusted with myself for having these thoughts.
But I wanted to be hunted down, chased, dominated.
I wanted to feel threatened because I liked that feeling.
I liked the rush of adrenaline it gave me. ”
He nods slowly, small hints of confusion creasing into his frown lines.
“You wanted Thomas Vale to desire you enough to become one of his victims?”
I shake my head, huffing out a small breath of annoyance.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Thomas Vale.
He’s disgusting, repulsive. I hope he rots in prison for what he’s done.
And I don’t want to be a victim. I want to be .
. .” I pause, trying to find the right word.
“A participant. Agree that we’ll try certain things with a heavy emphasis on domination and subjugation. ”
His eyes widen, and his thumb kneads into my calf.
“You said you want to change the narrative, but that’s not right.
You want to change the ending,” he whispers.
“You want to create a new reality, one where the woman doesn’t die a terrible and traumatic death.
You want the game to end in pleasure, where you’re both consenting.
It’s fear play, and a common kink. It’s nothing, and I mean nothing to be ashamed of.
” His hand grips my calf now, anchoring me to him.
I take a sip of beer to give myself a moment to take in his words. Jonesy, the person who could have judged me the most for this, is telling me it's normal; it’s okay. It might be a trauma response, but it makes sense.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes prick, tears flooding my vision as I try to hide from him.
“Come here, princess.”
I shake my head, refusing, but he takes the beer bottle from my hand, places it on the floor, and pulls me over to him.
I stiffen against his chest, but his hands rub up and down my back, soothing me, and I feel my knotted muscles loosen.
The steady rise and fall of his chest syncs with mine, and for a while, we lie there awkwardly.
I’m lying on top of Jacob Jones.
Jonesy.
Mortal enemy.
Pain in the ass.
Annoyingly comfortable chest.
He has that body type that has stacked muscles built from years of taking care of his body, with a layer of protective cushioning on top that screams that he knows how to relax and not take himself too seriously. Despite our tempered past, it defines him to a tee.
His arms cage me protectively, keeping out the world, my fears, and the anxiety that has plagued me for the last year.
Here, right now, I’m safe from it all. I’m cradled from the judgment that others would no doubt spew.
I should have known that for something serious, he never would have mocked me.
The ghost of Jonesy from college appears before me in a collage of flashbacks, his sly grin, competitive edge, never scared to take me head-on.
“Is this what’s bothered you for the past year?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my hairline.
I nod against his chest, and he squeezes me.
“And the nightmares . . . they’re not nightmares, are they?”
“No . . . I mean, I get scared, but it’s more of a fantasy rather than a nightmare,” I admit.
“Can you tell me about it?”
Oh, you know, I’m chased down the street and into my house by a masked man who holds me down and forces himself on me until I’m so wet, so desperate that I stop pushing him away.
He calls me a good girl, or a fantasy, or something along those lines, and I come harder than I ever have with anyone else.
And that’s a made-up man my brain created.
I stiffen slightly at my own thoughts; the ugly truth of working with a serial killer unleashing these desires makes me feel dirty. It’s why I’ve felt so conflicted this past year. How could I, in good conscience, do my job to the best of my ability, knowing what I fantasized about at home?
“What if I promise to do everything you’re willing to tell me?” he whispers, his voice low and strained.
My face flushes as quickly as the ache builds between my legs.
“You can’t promise something when you don’t know what I’m asking for.”
“Try me. What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? We find out that, despite pining after each other for fifteen years, we’re not sexually compatible, and we continue to take out our mutual frustration in the form of petty jibes and competitive board game tournaments.”
“You’ve been pining after me for fifteen years?” I scoff.
“Since the day I met you, princess. Now tell me the damn fantasy. How does it start?”
Sweet baby Jesus in a cornfield.
Fifteen years.
I mean . . . I knew this, right?
This buzzing between us has pulled us together since day one.
And I’ve hated it. Hated the undercurrent of sexual tension that has been simmering between us because I’ve sometimes hated him.
Hated that he was the one who made me feel this way.
No one else compared, and any step toward another man only took me down the road of comparison.
It’s like we were two embers glowing, threatening to destroy everything if the lightest of breezes came along to blow us together.
I swallow the pride that’s built up in my chest over the years.
Cutting through it like an explorer uses a machete to cut through the dense overgrowth of the jungle.
Creating a new path in uncharted territory.
It’s a leap of faith. Trusting . . . hoping that a panther isn’t going to come and swipe my feet from under me.
“I’m usually walking home or in my house alone.” His throat produces a raspy hum, and I continue. “I hear footsteps behind me, loud ones. The person isn’t trying to be quiet. He want me to know that he’s there.”
Jonesy’s thumb presses hard just above my hip bone, and his breathing loses its rhythm.
“When I look around, I see the person, and they don’t slow down.
I can't see his eyes, but I can see his grin. He’s happy I’m looking back.
He’s happy that I’m scared. I start to pick up my pace, but the thud of his boots quickens.
I get my keys out ready, and as soon as I reach the gate, I start to run up the path, but he’s on my heels.
I can’t stop him from coming into the house because he stops me from locking the door. ”
I feel Jonesy shift beneath me. He gives me no verbal confirmation that he’s unsettled. In fact, the only confirmation of any reaction I get is the hot, hard length of him pressing into my stomach like it’s trying to make an announcement, “I’m here! I can help with this situation!”
“Then what?” His hoarse voice scratches against my skin.
“I run to the bedroom, and I hide.” My voice is so thick I barely recognize it.
“Where?”
“Under the bed, in the closet, the bathroom sometimes.”
“Close your eyes. Tell me what you’re imagining now.” The gravelly texture of his voice travels through his chest and vibrates against my cheek.
I suck in a deep breath, steadying myself as I come to the crux of my issue.
The torment of holding this in for so long just so it can come spilling out to him seems impossible.
Like pouring gasoline on a fire, it’s threatening to shoot out uncontrollably.
The heat in my lower belly is pumping around my body, and the feel of his large hand, anchored against my back, keeps me present, keeps me bound to him and this moment.
I do as he says, closing my eyes, picturing the scene unfolding, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as the heavy thump of footsteps fills the silence of the room. They’re slow and meticulous. Like the man is in no rush, like this is a game that he’s happy to drag out.
“Under the bed,” I whisper, shifting my thigh so it drapes over his. I move my hips ever so slightly so the coarse fabric of his army-issued pants caresses my center in a tortuously rough kiss.
“Mhm. Keep going, princess. We’re almost there, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “He follows me into the room, standing at the foot of the bed. I can see his shoes. He’s so close I can smell the leather.
He always pauses, doesn’t rush, until suddenly a hand snaps around my ankle, dragging me out from under the bed.
I try to kick him off, I scream, I scratch—anything to get him off me. ”
“But he’s too strong?”
“I don’t stand a chance. He throws me on the bed, and it’s then that I see his eyes, the rest of his face covered with a mask of some kind. He spreads my legs, gripping both my wrists above my head, and I feel him grind his erection against me between my legs.”
Jonesy shifts, the steel pipe between his legs pawing against my stomach like it’s looking for a home to settle into.
I feel his hot breath against my ear, the smell of paint and plaster filling the air, and yet his manly shower gel clings to him with a layer of clean sweat that only comes from true physical labor.
I grind against his thigh, using the corded muscle to ease the ache between my legs.
“I try to kick him off, but he laughs. He likes that I fight him, and even though I know I should be begging him to stop, pleading with him not to hurt me, I’m silent.”
“Because you don’t want him to stop?”
“In the fantasy . . . no,” I admit. “I understand that in real life, I’d of course react differently.
If it wasn’t a game, I was playing with somebody.
I obviously don’t want to be assaulted and murdered.
” I rush out the words, feeling like I have to.
Like I need to explain the difference between fiction and reality.
He moves his hand in long, languid strokes down my back. “Shh, you’re okay,” he whispers, sensing my unease. “You don’t have to defend or justify any of this to anyone. Least of all me.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, rolling my hips so his thigh rubs against my core.
“I want to move past the case. I want to get back to my old life where I enjoy sex, well . . . sex that doesn’t involve that.
Because, truthfully, it’s made me feel like a bad psychologist. Like I don’t know if I can trust my own judgment anymore. ”
He shifts immediately. Pulling me up by my arms as if I weighed nothing, sitting me on his lap, straddling his still rock-hard erection.
I guess I know what Jonesy likes. It makes me feel both better and worse knowing we might be into the same things.
Better because I don’t feel like such a terrible person, worse because the more time I spend with him, the more I want us to work through everything.
Our compatibility in the bedroom would be a game-changer.
Sex is important to me; it’s something I love—or loved.
I know it would mean everything with him, and that opens me up to getting my heart broken again.
“Listen to me. You are Katie fucking Murphy. Top of her class. Beat me in every single pop quiz, every essay, every exam, because you’re a badass.
You were made for this job because that fucked-up little brain of yours is perfect.
Do you hear me? Don’t let that monster destroy your life.
He’s taken too many already.” His scrunched brow and the hard line of his lips pressing together tell me he’s serious.
He means what he’s saying. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with me at all.
Hell, maybe there’s just something wrong with both of us because I still feel the throb of his cock against my clit.
I made a promise to myself that I would never give Jacob Jones any power over me again.
I would never let him kiss me.
I would never let him destroy me the way he had when we were in college.
I’m a goddamn liar.
Before I can think too hard about it, I press my lips against his, and despite a brief pause of no doubt, shock, we start to vie for control.
His fingers tug at my nape, mine scraping down his chest. Our tongues battle for dominance against the clash of teeth and the escaping throaty whimpers.
He bites the plump of my lower lip, and I yank his head back by his hair.
We separate long enough to take a couple of deep breaths, our eyes never leaving each other.
Where does this leave us? Where exactly do we go from here?
I fight the urge to put up my defenses immediately. To reject him first this time. We’ve only kissed once before, and he didn’t speak to me for a year afterward. I’d kissed him first then, and I’d kissed him first now. Would the outcome be the same?
“You gonna run away like a scared little boy again?” I hiss as he pinches my hips.
He smirks. “That mouth, Katie. I’m gonna fill it so full, you’re gonna choke on your words.”
“I bet you only fuck missionary.”
He smirks again, his eyes dipping to my lips. “Only so we can keep arguing, princess.”
I scoff until he pushes his hard length against my center, a gasp escaping my throat.
“I’m not running this time, Katie. You are. You get a twenty-second head start.”
My heart skips a beat until adrenaline starts coursing through my veins. Is he serious? “Wh . . . what?”
“Eighteen seconds.”
I scramble off him and watch as he leans back lazily into my couch, palming his erection through his pants.
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
He’s so hot.
Undeniably . . . unbelievably . . . unacceptably hot.
And he’s going to fulfill the fantasy I just laid out for him.
“Fifteen seconds, princess. Or we can do it right here if you prefer?” His grin is maniacal, and I seriously consider taking him up on the offer.
But this is what I’ve been dreaming about for a year. Finally . . . I might be able to take that leap off the edge. I just can’t believe I have to put my faith in Jacob Jones to get me there.
It’s decided. Like my body even gave me a choice. I run from the room, flipping off all the light switches as I go until we’re in total darkness.