Chapter 7 #2
The material of her uniform pools around her feet, and I decide if I ever get Cara to myself away from this place, I will have her spend as much time as is humanly possible, bared to me like this.
She wears a simple black two piece, the thin ruffled lace straps of her underwear sitting high on her soft shapely hips.
“You can do better than that,” she murmurs tauntingly, her lips inches away.
Now psychopath is usually a word I set aside for when I really want someone to be afraid of me, but as I stand here, questioning the brute force it would take to break this glass with my fist, I’m cursing out the imaginary version of myself she’s got locked in her head who is clearly not doing a good enough job to please our woman.
I have officially lost the fucking plot, and if I’m really honest, I didn’t have much plot to note before I entered this room.
She runs her fingers teasingly under the waistband of her lace thong. If she were three inches taller, I’d be able to feast my eyes on what she’s doing right now, but sadly with her this close, the edge of the mirror stops right above her hips.
“You want me?” she asks coyly. Her laboured breathing picking up pace as her grin widens.
“Fuck yes, I want you, little Red.” It’s a promise; whether she heard it or not in this moment ceases to be important.
Cara Morgrieves will be mine.
“Just like that,” she moans. “Oh God, I’m close.”
‘About fucking time, imaginary us, let’s do this,’ the little voice in my head cheers, and for once, I feel like we’re on the same page.
Her dainty hand spreads across her chest, her prosthetic fingers dancing up the column of her throat before squeezing with all her might, the glittering metal like a necklace adorning her neck.
Her head snaps back as her other hand out of view picks up its pace.
I imagine her sliding her fingers between her folds, lavishing her clit with attention, just like I want to.
I practically hump the mirror, my cheek flat against the cool surface to get a glimpse of what she’s doing with that hand of hers.
It isn’t enough to know she’s touching herself and imagining it is me doing it to her.
I want to see it, to see her, laid out like my next meal, writhing and begging for me to soothe the ache I can see building in her expression.
“Mr. Wolfe, oh, ahhhh, what big teeth…ahhh. Please,” she begs, raspy and guttural as she squeezes her eyes shut.
Her sweat speckled forehead presses against the glass, her chest heaving as the lace of her bra struggles to contain her breasts.
I let myself imagine that I can smell her lavender and honeyed almond scent mixed with the arousal coating her fingers—teasing myself as I palm my aching cock roughly.
It’s been a while since my last release, so I doubt I’ll last long.
Thankfully, she’s not in the room with me to witness it.
I question for a moment whether I am dreaming; I could have been given endless chances to guess how this would play out when I’d had the idea of putting her in this room, and I still wouldn’t have been able to come up with this.
How many drugs did they give me at breakfast?
Slapping myself around the face hard enough to make me dizzy settles any wonder I may have had as to whether I’m dreaming right now. I stumble back in place. A palm pressed against the glass to steady myself as I watch her cheeks flush crimson.
I’ve been strapped to a chair, burnt with lit cigarettes, stripped naked, electrocuted and water boarded, all in one sitting, and I still consider this moment the most torture I’ve ever had to endure.
Loosening the tie at my waistband, I reach down and grip my fist around my cock, working from base to tip slowly and wishing it were her hand wrapped around it.
It’s painfully hard, the stuttered growl bursting from my lips burning my throat as I fight to keep my eyes open and on her.
Like an eager teenager witnessing a woman for the first time, I stroke myself faster.
My control pushed to its limit as I envisage the warm, wet heat of burying myself inside her.
How beautiful she’d look gagging with hollow cheeks around the girth of my cock.
Each rung of my metal piercings clanking against her teeth as she swallows me down her throat.
Her eyes are shut tight, her lower lip pulled between her teeth as her imagination fuels whatever the desire is that has her mewling like a cat in heat as she rides her own hand.
Cascading blonde curls fall forward over her shoulders.
What I wouldn’t give to be the one bringing her to the brink of madness as she falls below the choppy waters of her crashing orgasm.
It’s there, I can see that she is close as her mouth parts and her exhales become harried.
I push away the side note question of how many fingers she’s currently thrusting up into herself because time is of the essence, and I’m trying to commit to memory everything I can about this moment.
She presses her free hand against the mirror as her body shakes, the grinding scrape of the metal against the glass making me wish she was clawing at my bare chest, using me to sate all that pent-up frustration.
I can tell the moment her pleasure comes to a grinding halt, the vexation that it is her hand working her up when her brows pinch together.
I know the look because I am fucking my fist like my life depends on it right now, and I would give anything to be buried to the hilt inside her while she screams out my name.
Working herself back up, determination creases her brow as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Please Ezra, please…” It’s that pleading whimper and her cry of my name that has reason hightailing it out of the room, and I snap, done with this little game.
“Fuck this!” I turn arse out, picking up the closest object, aiming the tip of it at the corner of the mirror insert, ready to shatter the divide keeping us apart to climb into her room and to give her what she needs. A knock on her door is the only thing that stops me.
“Fuck,” we spit in unison, both breathing heavily as we gather our senses.
My heart beating relentlessly against my ribs I watch her paw at her cheeks as she quickly shuffles back into her dress, swooping her hair up into a messy bun atop her head.
She checks her reflection as she tidies back the stray hairs that have fallen around her face, inhaling air in through her nose and letting it out in a steady woosh from her parted lips to control her erratic breathing.
I one-handedly pull up my trousers and regretfully tuck my swollen cock back into my underwear, talking it down from the ledge; the pain of being so wound up and close to coming isn’t something I would wish on my worst enemy.
I need the release that I’m quickly realising only Cara can give me.
As the moment passes, I know I’m going to have to take care of my severe case of blue balls later.
I also know I’ll be right here watching her when I do it.
Another impatient knock comes at her door, and I fall back into the chair, watching the mirror like I would a TV screen, suddenly feeling too far detached from her again.
She rushes to retrieve a new set of pristine white gloves from her drawer, straightens her underwear through her dress, and squares her shoulders.
The Cara I met downstairs is now in control, my teasing vixen from moments ago stuffed back down inside her.
She double checks the room before she pulls aside the chair propped up under the handle and allows the door to swing open.
I usually build up to my kills, planning and prepping how I will go about it, researching my victim’s history, discovering what they did to get themselves put on my shit list. But when I see the sour expression on Lenora’s face when she glances around Cara disapprovingly at her room, I realise none of that matters; denying me the pleasure of watching my woman come undone—that is now point one on my list of how to die quickly and efficiently.
“We don’t lock doors here Miss Morgrieves,”
“Apologies Mrs Blackwood, I was just getting changed.”
I don’t hear their quiet exchange after that as Lenora hurries Cara out and shuts the door behind her. If anything i’m just grateful she didn’t order her to pack her things back up and head down to her original room.
With Cara here the voices in my head for the first time in forever felt distant, but with the room now silent and devoid of her warmth, with the focus of my attention no longer solely on her - my reality, who I am, where I am, what I am—it all begins to bleed back into the here and now, and those voices begin to invade the dream I lost myself in with her.
What fucking idiot brings an umbrella to a secret voyeurism room?
My only response to the little voice in my head is to heartily chuckle because looking down, I see the ratty moth-eaten gentleman’s cane umbrella that I grabbed to break the mirror still gripped in my fist; I can’t fault the logic.
And then a smaller voice in my head—gruffer, darker, more ominous in its feel. A voice I rarely let see the light of day, whispers in my ear, ‘It might not have broken the glass, but she sure would have looked bloody beautiful impaled on it.’
Is there such a thing as a psychopath with a heart?
God help Cara Morgrieves—she has no idea what she’s in for.