Kai
The jungle doesn’t just grow; it rots. It’s a cycle of slick, green life and the black, wet smell of decay.
I’m sitting in the shadows of a lean-to shack just deep enough into the brush to smell the salt of the resort and the ozone of the infinity pool, but far enough away that I’m nothing but a ghost in the trees.
The morning light is a jagged yellow blade cutting through the canopy, but I’m focused on the glass in my hand.
A small, clinical vial. It looks innocent enough to the untrained eye, but inside, it’s heavy. Milky. Swirling with the liquid proof of exactly what I did to her while her “fiancé” was busy playing king of the island.
I unscrew the cap, and the scent hits me like a physical blow. It’s her. It’s the musk of her fear-slicked skin, the metallic tang of the ocean, and the heavy, sweet scent of her climax. It’s the smell of a woman who was claimed by a monster while she thought she was sleeping in paradise.
“Good morning, Scarlett,” I rasp. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel.
I have a bowl of dry, generic cornflakes in front of me. I don’t give a fuck about the food. It’s just a vessel. A canvas. I tilt the vial with a steady hand, watching a thick, translucent glob slide out and coat the flakes. It’s pearlescent in the sun, beautiful and vulgar all at once.
I dip the spoon in, making sure it’s coated, and slide it into my mouth.
I close my eyes. I don’t just chew; I savour. The taste is complex—the salt of her, the honey-sweetness of her surrender, and the sharp, raw flavour of my own release. I swallow, feeling it slide down my throat, a physical tether between my gut and her body.
“I fucking love tasting you in the morning, baby,” I growl, the words vibrating deep in my chest.
My cock is already a thumping, heavy weight in my combat trousers, straining against the fly. I reach down, unzipping with a slow, deliberate hiss of metal teeth. I pull myself out—thick, angry, and pulsing with every beat of my heart.
I wrap my hand around my length, my skin dark against my own pale, spent fluid.
I start to stroke, my movements slow and rhythmic, my thumb tracing the sensitive ridge of my head.
Every slide of my hand is a memory of her.
I can still feel the way her ass gripped me when I forced my way in, the way she shook when I filled her twice over.
“You like that, don’t you?” I whisper to the empty air, imagining her standing right in front of me, blindfolded and trembling. “Knowing you’re inside me now? Knowing I’m eating you alive while you sit at that table and pretend to be his?”
I pick up another spoonful, dripping more of the mixture onto my tongue, licking the silver clean. I taste the salt of my own palm, the musk of the morning, and her. Always her. I’m a fucking addict and she’s the only hit that matters.
I stroke faster now, my breath coming in jagged, animalistic hitches.
My hand is slick, the friction generating a heat that rivals the tropical sun.
I’m not just pleasuring myself; I’m worshiping the violation.
I’m celebrating the fact that Noah is currently touching a woman who is still overflowing with me.
“Fucking look at me, Scarlett,” I groan, my head snapping back against the wooden post.
I imagine her eyes widening as she realises what’s on my tongue. I imagine the heat that would flood her pussy if she knew I was out here, in the dirt and the heat, consuming her. I’m a beast, and she’s my kill.
The pressure builds, a white-hot coil in my lower belly. I’m close. So fucking close. I can feel the come-up, the way my muscles lock and my toes curl into the dirt.
“Say it,” I command the silence. “Say my name while he kisses you. Tell him who really owns your throat.”
I hit the peak with a guttural, primal roar that scares a flight of birds from the trees. I don’t pull back. I watch as I spill over my hand, over the table, a violent, messy reminder of the animal I am. I’m panting, my chest heaving, sweat dripping off my chin and into the dirt.
I’m a fucking mess. A dark, dirty, beautiful mess.
I look down at my hand, then slowly bring my fingers to my mouth. I lick them clean, tasting the raw, copper tang of my own cum mixed with the lingering sweetness of her. I don’t miss a drop. I consume every bit of the evidence.
I lean back, my cock still twitching in the cool air, and pick up the binoculars.
I find her on the balcony of the villa. She’s in that blue dress. She looks like a porcelain doll. I can see her fingers trembling as she touches the glass. She knows. Somewhere deep in her lizard brain, she knows I’m watching. She knows I’m still inside her.
“Six days, Scarlett,” I murmur, my tongue sliding over my teeth, tasting her one last time. “Six days until I turn that white dress red. Enjoy your lunch, baby. I’ve already had mine.”
I zip up, the metal teeth sounding like a death knell. I’ve got work to do. Noah thinks he’s getting a wife. He’s actually just getting a front-row seat to his own funeral.
I pick up my knife, the blade catching the light, and start to sharpen it. Shink. Shink. Shink.
The hunt isn’t over. It’s just getting hungry.
The sun is a searing weight on the back of my neck, but I’m shivering. I’m cold with a hunger that doesn’t have a name.
I look back down at the vial. There’s a smear left on the glass rim—a thick, pearlescent streak of the sin we committed while the world slept.
I don’t use the spoon this time. I shove my tongue into the narrow opening of the glass, licking it raw, scraping my taste buds against the edge until I taste the sharp, iron tang of my own blood mingling with the cream of her surrender.
“God, you taste like a funeral, Scarlett,” I hiss, my voice dropping into a register that’s barely human. “The death of everything you used to be. The birth of everything I’m making you.”
I reach down and wrap my hand around my cock again.
It’s still weeping, still angry, still stone-hard.
I smear the mixture of my spit, her scent, and my own blood down the length of it.
I’m painting myself in her. I’m marinating in the wreckage of the girl she was before I broke the lock on her soul.
I stroke myself with a brutal, punishing rhythm. I’m not being gentle. I want the friction to burn. I want to feel the sting because it’s the only thing that matches the fire in my gut. I’m making a mess of myself in this rot-filled shack, and I don’t give a single fuck.
“I’m going to ruin you, baby,” I groan, my hips jerking against the edge of the table. “I’m going to strip that blue dress off you and show Noah exactly where I bit you. I’m going to show him how you leak for me when you’re terrified.”
I think about her mouth. That soft, trembling mouth that tried to say no while her body was screaming yes. I imagine shoving my fingers back into her throat, forcing her to swallow the truth of what we are.
I’m moving faster now, the table groaning under my weight, the air in the shack thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and impending death. My eyes are locked on the villa. I see a shadow move behind the glass.
Is it her? Is she looking for me?
“Watch me, Scarlett,” I snarl, my teeth bared. “Look into the trees and feel me cumming. Feel me twitching in your hand while you hold his. Feel me filling your mouth while you eat his goddamn brunch.”
The orgasm hits me like a freight train.
It’s not a release; it’s an explosion. I roar her name, a jagged, terrifying sound that rips through the humid air.
I don’t care if the security teams hear me.
Let them come. Let them see what a man looks like when he’s been hollowed out by a goddess and filled back up with gasoline.
I collapse against the post, panting, my skin slick and shimmering with the evidence of my obsession. I look down at my hand—covered in the mess of us.
I don’t reach for a rag. I don’t clean it off.
I bring my hand to my face and inhale. Deep. Until my lungs burn. I lick my palm clean, slow and deliberate, consuming every drop of the filth I’ve created. It’s bitter. It’s salty. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.
“I’ve got your scent in my marrow now, Scarlett,” I whisper, my tongue sliding over my lower lip. “You can’t wash me off. You can’t pray me away.”
I stand up, my legs heavy, my head spinning with the high of it. I grab a discarded piece of white lace I stole from her laundry bag three days ago. I wipe the remaining vial-drip onto the centre of the fabric, a Rorschach test of pure, unadulterated possession.
I pull out my lighter. I don’t burn it. I just heat the lace until the scent of her rises in a small, concentrated cloud of steam, then I press the hot fabric against my chest, right over my heart, branding the smell into my skin.
“Noah is a dead man,” I say, the certainty of it settling in my bones. “He just doesn’t know he’s a corpse yet.”
I pick up my binoculars one last time.
Noah is leaning over her now, his hand on the back of her neck. He thinks he’s being dominant. He thinks he’s in control.
I see her eyes. They’re looking straight at the jungle. Straight at me.
I press two fingers to my lips and blow a kiss into the wind—a kiss made of salt, cum, and the promise of a massacre.
“Dinner’s coming, baby,” I grin, my teeth flashing in the shadows. “And I’m the only thing on the menu.”