Chapter 11
Distracted by the feel of Martinez’s lips on the back of my neck, it takes me twice as long to unlock the door. The moment I have it, he’s on me, turning me to face him as we push through the entrance of my apartment. He kicks the door closed with his foot, never missing a beat as he unbuttons my shirt, then starts on my jeans.
I climb onto the bed, admiring his strong build when he quickly grabs his t-shirt over his head, tossing it aside before starting on his belt and zipper. It seems like he’s naked in a flash, his weight covering me.
Again, there isn’t an ounce of foreplay, so we’re on two separate pages. He’s hard and ready to just dive in, whereas I might need a little priming.
“Can we slow down?”
“What?” he breathes against my neck, kissing and sucking my skin.
“I asked if we can slow down. You know, take a little time to get into it?”
He leans away, and our eyes lock through the darkness. “Do you feel this shit? It doesn’t get more into it than this,” he says, thrusting his dick against my inner thigh.
I place a hand on his shoulder to hold him off. “While that’s nice for you, I’m not quite there yet.”
He stares a moment, leaving me to wonder how he’ll react. But then he takes a deep breath and nods.
“Yeah, sure. I hear you.”
The unenthusiastic response grates on my nerves a bit, but he’s forgiven when his lips find my neck again, placing long, feather-like kisses against my skin. His hand slowly smooths up my torso, gripping my breast through my bra.
“Better?”
I draw in a breath, annoyed that he’s so out of touch with my needs that he had to ask, but I shove the frustration down.
“Better.”
Slowly, I feel myself finally getting wet. He nips my collar bone, and my legs fall open when he slips his hand into my underwear, whispering words that immediately strike a chord.
“Good girl.”
All of a sudden, I’m not here anymore. And those words aren’t on Martinez’s lips, they’re on someone else’s. I’m back in the fantasy I conjured nights ago. A fantasy that ended with me, apparently, getting myself off with my vibrator. But in that moment, you couldn’t have convinced me I was alone. The stranger I pulled into reality made all the difference. The way he touched me, the way he took care of me, the way he made me come.
Martinez groans, kissing his way down to my breasts as he fingers me, pushing them deep as I squeeze his shoulder at the sound of the stranger’s voice again.
Touch yourself. I want you to push your fingers inside your pussy. Can you do that for me?
My head spins, flickering between the present and the memory.
That’s it, Layla. As deep as you can. Now, let me taste you. Feed me your fingers.
Martinez mistakes the moan that slips from my lips as one meant for him, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The sound is meant for another man. One who doesn’t exist anywhere but in my fantasy.
“You feel ready to me,” Martinez groans, thrusting his pelvis against me, hinting at his impatience. “Can I have you now?”
With the memory fresh in my head, and with my pussy responding in kind, I nod.
He wastes no time pulling my panties down and slipping a condom on. Then, he’s quick to align himself between my thighs, pushing into me without hesitation. The jolt draws a gasp from my lips as he powers into me, working his hips hard and fast.
He’s still just fucking me for himself, but I shove the annoyance down again because I’ve got better things to think about, hearing the stranger’s voice in my head again as he plays with my clit, taking care of me for once.
Martinez shifts, rearing back on his shins as he fastens his hands behind my knees, pushing them toward my chest as he thrusts harder. With more space between our bodies, I reach for my clit, relying on the memory again, inviting the stranger in to join us. Although, no one knows he’s here but me, pleasuring me, doing all the things Martinez either can’t or won’t do.
A few seconds later, I’m actually close to coming, feeling the bud between my legs throbbing against my fingers as I play.
“Shit, you’re so fucking wet for me, babe,” Martinez pants, but little does he know…
My hips swivel when the pressure mounts, and a second later, I’m in ecstasy, squeezing my eyes tight as an orgasm detonates little, tiny shockwaves all over my body. But it isn’t until images begin flashing inside my mind that I realize just how out of my head I’ve become. The first is a flash from yesterday’s crime scene—the heart-shaped web carved into her torso. Then, the silhouette I spotted in the shadows tonight, watching me. Some dark, broken part of me drew this imagery into my head at the precise moment of my release, and I’m doing my best not to ruin it by thinking too much.
By questioning what it all means.
By questioning why I’m even thinking about what extremes The Widowmaker went to.
…For me.
Just as I’m starting to come down, Martinez releases a deep grunt as he empties into the condom, slowly collapsing on top of me as he finishes, like his life source has just been drained from his body.
We lie there, hearts racing, and I’m suddenly covered in guilt. Fucking swimming in it.
It has very little to do with Martinez being the man in my bed while I hardly thought of him. But it has everything to do with my rogue thoughts.
Thoughts that might just be darker than any others I’ve ever had.
I see it again—the body, the blood. And worst of all, I feel it again. The way my unfiltered thoughts likened The Widowmaker’s latest offering to a gift.
Shit… What the hell is wrong with me?
Martinez pulls out and seems to notice that I’m spiraling, losing my shit.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” he asks as I roll onto my side, curling into myself, distancing myself from him.
There’s no way I’d ever tell him the truth—that I just came while thinking about a murder scene. So, I lie.
“You should go. I’m getting a migraine.”
His hand lands on my back, and I almost pull away.
“Then, maybe I should stick around for a bit,” he offers. “I mean, I can’t stay the whole night, but I’ve got about half an hour.”
Fucking. Asshole.
“No, just… go. I’ll be fine.”
He leaves his hand there a moment, and I get the feeling he wants me to take it as a sign that he cares, but I’m not an idiot.
“Call if you need something. I’m not that far.”
I extend my arm, giving an exaggerated thumbs up.
He’s off my bed the next second, doing his usual walk to the bathroom to flush the condom, then I listen as he dresses himself, then turns the doorknob.
“I mean it. Call if you need something.”
“As long as it’s within the next half hour, right?”
He’s quiet, and I know I shouldn’t have said anything. Especially seeing as how I don’t actually care. It’s just fucking insulting.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I say, burying my head underneath the pillow. “It’s the headache talking.”
He stands there a moment, then eventually buys the lie, and I’m grateful he doesn’t try his hand at anymore small talk or half-assed goodbyes. He just leaves, and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to be alone than I am right now.
I wait until I hear him take off out of the driveway before deadbolting the door, pulling on my robe, and then tossing my bedding in the wash. I’m pissed at myself for how my thoughts never seem to be mine to control. There’s always some outside force swaying me in one direction or another. And this time, I’m fearful that the latest bad influence is as dark as they come.
But… this fixation, this darkness is… powerful.
So powerful that I’m eyeing my computer as a strange temptation grows within me. I convince myself my desire to connect with him is steeped in good intentions, talking myself into believing that I’m logging into my email messenger to scold the monster masquerading as a man.
But deep down, as I type out my first message, I know it’s more than that.
Layla: James 1:14 “But each person is tempted when he is drawn away and enticed by his own evil desire.”
My heart’s racing as I stare at the blinking cursor, but it skips an entire beat when I see he’s typing back.
Unknown: “Then after desire is conceived, it gives birth to sin.”
I breathe deep, typing words that calm my thoughts of him. They give me a sense of putting him in his place.
Putting my emotions in their place.
Layla: “And when sin is fully grown… it gives birth to death.”
I stare at those words, trying to let them penetrate my thoughts, but I’m still thinking of him in ways I shouldn’t.
Unknown: Let me come to you.
The sudden twist in conversation startles me. So much that I read, and re-read, his message, wondering what the hell he’s thinking. I mean, the last time we communicated, I threatened to have his ass locked away forever. Which begs the question, why would he even suggest that we meet?
I feel my pulse racing at the hollow of my throat, and I’m utterly shocked by the lack of fear his suggestion sparks. Reminding me that, despite being a functional human being who’s successfully integrated herself into society… I’m still broken, still saturated in darkness.
Which is why I’ve suddenly come to my senses, admitting to myself that reaching out to him was a mistake.
Layla: The only place I’d ever let you meet me is at the police station to turn yourself in.
Unknown: I’m curious. What would you gain from putting me behind bars?
I scoff at his arrogance.
Layla: Well, for starters, it wouldn’t be about me. It comes down to a simple fact. That people like you belong in confined spaces with around-the-clock security, so the community can rest easy at night.
Unknown: And what about you? Would you rest easier?
Layla: Of course, I would. I’d go on living my life in peace, knowing another piece of shit was taken off the streets.
Unknown: I see. Perhaps knowing a piece of shit like me is out roaming the earth is the reason you couldn’t enjoy your meal tonight.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I’m completely frozen, taking in his admission. I recall the figure I spotted underneath the awning tonight while Martinez and I dined. I’d convinced myself that I imagined it because he vanished so quickly, but he’s all but confirmed that I’m not, in fact, as crazy as I thought.
Unknown: Or maybe you were disgusted when you realized that asshole’s idea of fine dining is a trash heap known for its two-for-one nacho special.
Layla: That was you. You were the one watching from across the street.
Unknown: You’ve missed the fucking point.
My heart races, sensing the frustration and venom in his words.
Layla: Then, tell me. What’s this grand point that I’ve missed?
Unknown: That I’m more than just some shadow moving through your world. I’m the one looking after you, taking care of you when you aren’t even aware. The one who’d drop a body for you simply because it’s a fucking Tuesday.
The evaluation he’s just made is locked in my head, despite knowing it’s completely irrational to compare Martinez’s gesture—nachos—to someone dropping a body for me.
But then I snap out of it, ending the brief lapse in character where I subtly romanticized his murderous habits.
Layla: What you did to that librarian… that wasn’t for me. That blood isn’t on my hands.
Unknown: You planted the inspiration in my thoughts. I simply painted the picture. Like it or not, that kill was intimate, Layla. A partnership, if you will.
My stomach turns, hearing his explanation.
Layla: Don’t pull me into this shitshow with you.
Unknown: Some might argue that you’re already knee-deep in this shitshow, but… whatever helps you sleep at night.
I pause with my fingers over the keys again, hating how he’s somehow established dominance in this conversation, reducing my responses to short, defensive outbursts.
Unknown: We work so well together, I say we paint another. Tell me what you envision, and it’ll be done by morning.
An unruly rush moves through me, a sense of power as he awaits my response.
Layla: I’m not playing this game. I only came back to tell you to go to the police.
Unknown: Is that so?
Layla: Yes, I was on my way in to tell the chief everything this morning, but he was in a meeting. Consider that a sign that you’re meant to be a man and do this yourself. It’s never too late to do the right thing.
He takes longer to answer this time, and my nerves get the best of me, thinking I scared him off. Possibly forever. If that were to happen, the department would lose its one connection to a man who’s shaping up to be this decade’s most notorious killer.
Unknown: Maybe you’re right. Your sudden change of heart is a sign. But not quite the sign you’re thinking it is.
Layla: What does that even mean?
Unknown: It means you didn’t storm in and interrupt that meeting for a far more interesting reason.
Layla: You’re insane.
Unknown: And my insanity intrigues you.
I pause, taking a moment to push him out of my head.
Unknown: Let me come to you.
Hearing him suggest it a second time has another incredulous laugh bubbling in my throat, and I’m officially done.
Layla: You won’t hear from me again. Go to the police. Do the right thing before it’s too late.
I’m sure he has plenty more to say, but I log out and close my computer before he has the chance. This conversation is over, whether he agrees or not.