Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“Christopher. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I slap her ass. “Going to miss this Daddy cock, aren’t you?”
She bites her lip to keep from answering, her eyes squeezed shut, as if ashamed of herself for enjoying what I’m doing to her so much.
“When I’m gone, when you’re in bed at night, trying to satisfy this pussy, you call for me by the right name. Evan.” Hating the way she stiffens and this newly revealed truth, I latch onto her neck with my teeth, raking that sensitive flesh and licking away the sting. I fuck her harder in some deluded effort to make her forgive me. “Matter of fact, you do it right now. Call me by the right name before I go. I want to see it on your beautiful lips.”
A beat passes. “Evan,” she murmurs brokenly.
“Louder.”
“Evan!”
I growl, wrapping my arms around her, mashing my lips into her neck, kissing, sucking, jacking my hips up and impaling her hard, rough, over and over, until she starts to whimper, her thighs trembling around my waist. “Good little girl. Come for Daddy one last time.”
Her scream is the sweetest music, her cunt gripping me, releasing, gripping, releasing, warm moisture aiding my final pumps, and I peak with a bellow, grinding up into her heaven and filling her with my hot spend. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” I chant into her hair, clutching her ass, using that grip to work her pussy roughly against my spewing dick. “I will love you forever, Jolie. My wife. I leave you with my heart.”
We both go still a moment later, our harsh breaths bouncing off the walls of this cave where I’ve obsessed hour upon hour over her. And I will always obsess over her, miss her, pine for her breath on my skin, but the real version of that is over now. It has to be. I’ve hurt her—scared her—and that is unacceptable.
Wordlessly, I untie my wife, rubbing her wrists to bring the life back.
She takes her hands back quickly, looks at me, looks around at the room. With tears brimming in her eyes, she edges toward the exit, as if expecting me to stop her.
I almost do. God, I almost do.
A beast growls inside me, telling me to tie her back up.
Hold her captive here. Possess her. Feed my obsession.
But I let her go. I let her run, because my love won’t allow me to do anything else.
And the farther she runs, the more painful my heartbeat gets…until I feel nothing at all but torturous agony.
8
Jolie
Two weeks later
I look up from my sketchbook and see it’s dark outside.
With a gasp, I fumble for my phone and turn the house lights on, breathing through the nerves. Willing them to abate. They do, finally, but I continue to stare at nothing, like I’m half asleep or in a trance.
It has been two weeks since Christopher…Evan disappeared. Poof. Without a trace.
I keep expecting him to show up. To be standing in the kitchen when I come out in the morning. Or to roll over in the middle of the night, straight into his welcoming arms.
But that hasn’t happened.
It hasn’t happened.
I’ve thrown myself into self-defense classes. Therapy, too—after a thorough sweep of the office. I found a microphone taped under the desk. I stared down at it in the palm of my hand, waiting for the outrage to hit. It did, but so briefly I almost missed it. Yes, it was wrong of Evan to intercept my personal thoughts. They are sacred. And mine.
But I can’t help but consider what he did with the information.
I healed thanks to myself. He took the fears I voiced in therapy and found roundabout ways of lessening them. Rearranging furniture in our bedroom and living room so there would be fewer hiding spots. Attaching a whistle and pepper spray to my keys without me asking. Encouraging me to do self-defense classes.
I’m not an expert on psychopaths, but I know a little, after being kidnapped by one. And they don’t care about the needs of others. It’s not in their DNA.
Meaning, Evan can’t be one.
Meaning…there is a strong possibility he might genuinely love me.
In a very twisted way.
Swallowing the lodgment in my throat, I close my sketchbook and stand, looking around the apartment. At the stillness where there used to be laughter. Moaning. Companionable silence. It’s so empty without him. I’m…
No.
I refuse to be empty over the loss of him. He stalked me. Lied to me about his name, his job, where he was going every day. Listened to my most personal thoughts.
He murders people for a living, for god sakes.
A long time passes before I realize I’ve been standing in the middle of the living room, unmoving. With a huffed breath, I start to pace. I need to put Evan behind me. Not to mention, all of the embarrassment that comes from being fooled again into thinking someone was normal. So embarrassed that I couldn’t bring myself to contact the police and tell them I’d been stupid enough to marry a man who was lying about his identity.