His breath against my throbbing mound caused me to suck air through my teeth. Before I recovered, he flicked his tongue against my swollen clit.
I shuddered in response.
He paused. My muscles soon relaxed. I collapsed onto the cool bedding. He pushed the tip of his tongue into my wetness, and then circled my throbbing nub with precision.
I struggled to remain motionless. As my reward, he cinched my clit between his lips and flicked it repeatedly with his tongue.
A tingle ran the length of my spine.
He lifted his head. “Are you paying attention?”
My response got tangled in my throat. A barely audible yes puffed past my lips.
He blew against my wet mound. I drew a quick breath. He inserted the tip of his finger. I writhed as he pushed it deeper.
He added another.
Every muscle in my body tensed. A shaking breath escaped me. Enveloped in my self-imposed darkness, I bit against my lower lip and tried to embrace the emotion that began to run through me.
With his fingers still inside me fully, he paused. “Sex isn’t simply an act that two people take part in,” he explained. “At least it shouldn’t be. If properly executed, sex has the severity of an earthquake.”
In anticipation of what was sure to come, I could feel my heart beating between my legs. He was mind-fucking me again. I needed to pay attention. I swallowed heavily, and then parted my dry lips.
“That’s uhhm. That’s an interesting concept.”
“It’s not a concept,” he said. “It’s fact. A person’s life becomes marked by severity. The severity of sex will certainly mark yours. Only sex can create life. That alone paints a clear picture of the severity of the act. If sex is executed without permission, the punishment for the crime can be death.”
“Taryn.” He withdrew his fingers. “Do I have your permission?”
There was only one response to give.
So, I gave it.
“Yes.”
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-One
Taryn
Disappointed with a client I couldn’t please, I’d drowned my work-related sorrows with two glasses of sangria. Three margaritas followed. The rest of the night was a blur of laughing, joking, and slamming shots with my girlfriends.
On my way out of the bar, I succumbed to the intellectual banter of a handsome member of the opposite sex. He was lean muscle from head to toe, and wore an I bet you don’t have the guts to fuck me smirk.
I was never one to back down from a dare, even if it was implied by nothing more than a grin and a set of intimidating slate-colored eyes.
I’d become rather versed on drunken hookups, none of which produced anything more than a single night’s satisfaction. A former San Diego Chargers cheerleader who once aspired to be an actress, I considered myself to be quite a catch. For whatever reason, the male population of Southern California didn’t seem to agree. It seemed once a woman reached her thirties, she became a target for men interested in nothing more than one night stands.
Seated at an armless contemporary leather sectional in the home of a man I didn’t know, I blinked my drunken eyes and stared in disbelief at his home furnishings. Lack thereof was more accurate.
The home’s stark white walls were bare.
Completely void of anything.
I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose. Oddly, I couldn’t identify a single odor. The home was spotless, but it didn’t smell clean. Or dusty. Or as if anyone had ever cooked in it. Nor was there a lingering scent of soap in any form, or even a candle.
It smelled like nothing.
The armless companion to the sectional sat on the other side of the room. My eyes drifted toward the full-height wall that separated me from my sexy drink-making friend. A round glass table and four perfectly-placed chrome and white leather chairs sat just outside the kitchen, opposite a glass wall that overlooked the beach.
I would have figured him for Western or Shabby Chic, but not Contemporary. It didn’t fit his muscled physique, the tattoos, or the boldness of his walk.
“Salt or sugar?” he asked.
His voice caused my focus to shift from the dinette set to the kitchen. I shouted into the living room’s abyss. “Sugar, please.”
I wondered if he was moving out or moving in. Convinced he simply detested artwork, comfortable furniture, clutter, and odors, I shrugged it off and mentally prepared for one last drink and a night of wild sex.
The sensible side of me intervened for a fleeting moment.
I scanned the living room furniture again. It could have been Modern, I wasn’t sure. Not that it made a difference. The home’s furnishings were sparse, primarily white leather, and without clutter. I added throw pillows to the list of things he somehow managed to refrain from possessing.
Despite his handsome looks, million-dollar smile, and broad chest, the practical side of my brain didn’t like what I was seeing. Something was wrong. The house was too clean. Too perfect. Too sterile. Too quiet. Too secluded.
Then, it came to me.
He was a mass murderer.
I checked the gray hardwood floor for any signs of blood stains and found nothing. Convinced he knew everything there was to know about eliminating any hint of bodily fluids, I pressed my palms against the couch cushions and considered standing.
The precursor to leaving.
I wanted to sneak away and never see him again, but felt doing so would be impossible. His attentive nature led me to believe that he could hear a pin drop from a mile away. Certain that my alcohol-induced mad dash to the door would sound like a herd of buffalos running across a gym floor, I opted to slump in my seat and embrace my fate.
There was no doubt about it. I was going to become a statistic. San Diego County murder victim number 617. A toe tag would undoubtedly be the final addition to my extensive wardrobe.
The thought of my sister getting a visit from the police at 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday caused my stomach to heave. Then, it began to grumble. The same attention-grabbing noise it made when I forgot to eat breakfast. Feeling like a complete idiot for allowing myself to be lured into such a situation by mouth-watering muscles and a pair of demanding eyes, I pressed my forearms against my mid-section and rocked back and forth.
I gazed toward the front door and wondered how long it would take me to reach it if I was in a full sprint. Too long, I decided. My drunken attempts to run to – or from – anything while clutching my purse resembled a slow-motion replay of a running back fumbling a football for twenty yards along the sideline.
Accepting my demise didn’t come easily, so I chose to press him for more information.
“How long have you been here?” I shouted. My voice echoing off the undecorated walls sent a chill the length of my spine.
I wanted to know how long he’d lived in the bare-walled mansion, but decided I’d settle for any response he was willing to give. I was becoming creeped out by the hospital-like atmosphere, and hoped his reply would somehow provide comfort.
“In California?” he asked.
It wasn’t what I was after, but it was a start. I pressed on. “Yeah.”
“My entire life, basically.”
His response did little to ease my state of mind.
“I like this place.” It was a complete and utter lie, but I wanted him to think it wasn’t. I gazed through the glass wall – toward the moonlit beach. “What made you decide to get a place on the beach?”
“The seclusion.”
Hacking people to pieces and stuffing their remains in quart-sized Zip-Lock bags while surrounded by neighbors would prove difficult. If one chose to be a serial killer, I was sure there had to be advantages of living in a secluded location.
“This place has a great view.” Now convinced he had just moved in, I decided to ask anyway. It never hurt to confirm suspicions, especially when it came to potentially sleeping with a psychopathic murderer. “How long have you been here?”
“Four years.”
Therein lied the answer. Four years. He lived without a single photo, piece of artwork, or depiction of the likeness of another human being. My keen sense of human nature must have been broken. I’d somehow managed to leave the beachside bar with a loner who was a neat-freak and a murdering psychopath.
When we arrived, he’d unlocked the door by pressing buttons on a keypad. I wondered when I burst through it in my attempt to escape if an alarm would sound. I really needed to make a run for it. Alarm or not, I needed to get out before he made a lampshade out of my skin.
Before I could grab my purse and stand, he emerged from behind the wall holding an oversized margarita glass in each hand.
One of which, I was convinced, had a dissolved roofie in it.
Shit!
He extended his left hand.
I stood, forced a grin, and then reached for the glass in his right hand.
His eyes narrowed.
I offered an apologetic shrug as I stripped him of the drink. He glanced at the other glass and then at me.
“What’s your name again?” I asked.
“Marc.”
“Marc, I changed my mind,” I said. “Sugar on the rim just doesn’t sound good.”
I decided I’d make my getaway when the effects of the drugs weakened him. He was twice my weight, so whatever he had planned for me would at least render him sloth-like once it kicked in.
I raised my glass. “To uhhm. To…”
I wanted to give a cute little toast, have him drink the drug-laden drink, and wait patiently for him to begin slurring his speech. His handsome looks and bulging muscles were wreaking havoc on my plan – and on my ability to assemble a meaningful sentence.
“To uhhm. To beachfront living,” I stammered.
Where the hell did that come from?
He raised the glass. After feigning a sip, he coughed and then wiped his handsome face with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t drink this.” In complete support of my theory, he lowered the glass, and then met my curious stare. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He disappeared behind the wall.
As the sound of him mixing another margarita bounced off the home’s hard surfaces, I set my glass on the end table. Then, I reached for my purse, clutched it tight in my hand, and did what any paranoid drunk would have done.
I ran for the door.
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Two
Marc
Describing my morning routine as methodical would be the understatement of the century. My day began with a shower. A three-mile run followed. After the run, 250 push-ups, 250 sit-ups, and 60 pull-ups. Then, another shower.
All on an empty stomach.
The post-workout 20-minute drive to a diner in Vista gave me time to relax, and it was there that I ate the same breakfast, every day.
The small restaurant was a step back in time. The red vinyl benches and bar stools were comfortably worn, and the white Formica tables and countertops were trimmed with fluted chromed steel. The floor was fashioned with black and white tile, placed in an alternating pattern. I envisioned the establishment being the same when a generation from fifty years past patronized it.
I adjusted my silverware, lining up the ends of the handles perfectly. After unfolding my newspaper and placing it on the center of the table, I moved the condiment basket against the partition wall that separated the booths.
Jacky handed me my cup of coffee. “Good morning, Marc. The usual?”
“Good morning. Yes, please.”
She flicked her pen against the notepad she held and then looked at me. “I don’t know why I even ask. Have you ever had a scrambled egg?”
I shook my head.
“Poached?”
I continued shaking.
“Over easy?”
I looked at her and grinned. “I have not.”
“You have not,” she said mockingly. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Our Denver omelet is fabulous. So are the huevos rancheros.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I’m missing. I’ll stick with what works, though.”
“You’re an odd duck, mister.”
“There are very few things in life I can control, and this is one of them. I enjoy the predictability of it.”
She shook her head playfully. “You must. But you should try something new sometime.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said with a smile. “Because that’ll never happen.”
“Never say never.”
I shrugged. “I know me.”
She grinned and turned away. “It’ll be up in a few.”
Jacky was in her early thirties, blonde, petite, and quite attractive. She had one daughter, Charlee, who was thirteen. During the school year, Charlee remained in the diner until 8:00, and then walked two blocks to school. For the two-and-a-half months of summer, she stayed until her mother finished her shift.
Seeing Charlee was the highlight of my visit. She was thin, and tall for her age, most of which came from her awkwardly long legs. Her olive skin, blue eyes, and curly blonde hair gave her an adorable presence. Her personality, unquenchable curiosity, and snarky attitude completed the package. Seated in the booth across from me with her legs stretched out along the length of the bench, her nose was buried in a book.
“Still reading To Kill a Mockingbird?” I asked.
With her index finger marking her place, she raised the book. “I finished it. I’m starting over again.”
During the summer, she read a book in a matter of a day or two. I found it impressive that her focus was reading, and not texting or spending her days competing for attention on social media.
“You must have liked it.” I grinned and gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Your thoughts?”
“I wish my name was Scout.”
“That’s what you’ve arrived at after reading it?” I coughed a sarcastic laugh. “You wish your name was Scout?”
She wadded her hair into a mess of a bun, pulled her knees to her chest, and shot me a playful glare. “Don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions. That was one point I was going to make. Her nickname was awesome. I’ve never had a nickname, and I thought it was cool. As far as the book goes?” She twisted her mouth to the side, gazed down at her worn sneakers, and after a moment, looked up. “In summary, it’s a book about how to live life.”
The book was a favorite of mine. I found her response interesting, and wanted more. “Why do you say that?”
“Have you read the book?”
I cleared my throat. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view,” I said, citing a quote from the book.
Her eyes went wide. “I want to climb into your skin and walk around in it.”
I scrunched up my face. “Okay, that sounds creepy.”
“It’s from the book. It’s a metaphor.” She let out an audible sigh and set the book aside. “Compassion is based on sympathy. It’s difficult to be sympathetic without fully understanding what a person is going through. To walk in their skin is to develop an understanding of who they are. That’s all.”
“Believe me. You wouldn’t like it in my skin.”
“I would,” she said excitedly. “I want to figure you out.”
Her questioning often resembled an interrogation. If it were anyone else, I would raise my guard and promptly object. With Charlee, I felt obligated to feed her adolescent curiosity.
After checking my silverware, I looked at her. “Figure me out?”
She wrung her hands together and nodded eagerly. “I want to figure out what you’re hiding from.”
An adult hidden inside a teen’s body, she was thirteen going on thirty. I’d been shot at, stabbed, choked damned near to death, and beaten senseless, yet her simple curious nature caused sweat to bead on my brow.
I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my palm, and then arched an eyebrow. “Who says I’m hiding from anything?”
She read too many books, most of which were intended for intellectual adults. I dismissed her line of questioning, and gave a response I hoped would put an end to her prying. There were some things she simply didn’t need to know.
“I like the peace and quiet of a small diner, the presence of a snarky teen, and the predictability of the eggs.”
She opened her book and gazed into it. “You’re full of crap.”
Jacky stepped between us. The interruption was welcomed. I exhaled, met her gaze, and grinned.
She smiled in return and set the plate on the edge of the table. “Three, over medium, dry wheat toast, and three pieces of turkey bacon. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Let him eat, Charlee.”
Charlee responded with a mock military salute as she walked away.
“You don’t salute indoors unless you’re under arms,” I said.
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that mean?”
I folded the newspaper, set it aside, and moved the plate to the center of the table. “Unless you’re armed, you don’t salute indoors.”
“According to who?”
I cut one of the eggs in two with my fork. “According to those in the know.”
“Were you a soldier?” she asked excitedly.
“I was not.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I was a sailor.”
“You were on a ship?”
“I didn’t spend much time on a ship, no.”
“Isn’t that what sailors do? Sail?”
“I wasn’t a typical sailor, so I didn’t do typical things.”
“You’re evasive sometimes.”
I swallowed my food, and then took a sip of coffee. “Evasive? That’s a big word for a thirteen-year-old.”
She peered over the top of her open book. “I’m not a typical thirteen-year-old, so I don’t say typical things.”
I cut the next egg in two. “You’re certainly not, and you certainly don’t.”
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