Kissing the Killer(9)

By: B. B. Hamel

“Yes,” I said honestly.

“Thanks.” He grabbed me by the arms again and hauled me up off the couch after him. I struggled a bit, but that didn’t help. He pulled me after him and pushed me into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

I should have felt afraid in that moment. I’d never been with a man before, never actually had sex. I’d been sexual, kissed boys, touched them, but I’d never had sex. It just never felt right; I’d never found a guy who wanted to be with me for me, and not just to control me.

It was funny. All those years and my father was convinced that I was some whorish tramp, but that was so far from the truth. Now, standing in front of Brooks, I felt incredibly exposed and naïve, like I knew nothing.

This man was a killer. He had experience and knew how to do things I could only guess at. And I couldn’t stop fighting him like the idiot I was.

He opened a drawer and my heart started hammering. I didn’t know what it would feel like, if I should scream or try to run. I flinched as he pulled something from the dresser.

“Here,” he said, tossing it at me. It was a pair of black sweatpants and a gray hoodie. “It’ll be big, but it’s probably better than what you have on.”

I stared at the clothes and then back at him. “Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“You going to leave, or am I getting changed in front of you?”

He grinned. “I was hoping you’d just take off your clothes, but you can have some privacy.” He turned his back to me.

Was he flirting with me? I shook my head, totally unsure. This guy had kidnapped me, and now he was turning his back while I put on clothes.

I quickly yanked the sweatpants on, cinching the tie as tight as it would go. I pulled the sweatshirt on over my head.

“Okay,” I said.

He turned back at me and frowned. “I liked you better without the clothes on.”

“I bet you did.” I sat down on his bed and crossed my legs. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk.”

“In my line of work, we’re allowed to take home a little something extra from time to time. Usually it’s in the form of a woman. Men like me use her up and then kill her when they’re done with her.”

“Is that what you’re going to do to me?”

“No,” he said, “I’m not. But I’m supposed to. See, you can’t walk away from this apartment. If someone spots you, we’re both dead. Not only will my people come after you, but the Russians will want your head as well. They aren’t too happy about your dad double-dealing on them.”

“So let me leave town,” I said.

“That’s one solution, but do you know how many guys the Italians and the Russians have all over this country?”

I shook my head, genuinely ignorant. I’d never been outside Chicago, let alone in another state.

“A lot,” he said. “A lot more than you think. Besides, I need to present your dead body as proof to my boss that I killed you.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “it is. But I don’t hurt women. It’s just not my thing.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a killer and you don’t hurt women?”

“I’ll kill men whenever and however my bosses want me to, and I love to fuck a wet, willing pussy, but I don’t hurt them.”

I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Mister Hit Man with a conscience. How noble.”

He sighed. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m supposed to kill you soon, and I very much don’t want to do that. I also can’t let you leave, because that’ll only make things worse.”

“So you want me to, what, hang around here until you eventually decide you have to kill me to save yourself?” I stood up. “No, thanks.”

He stared at me with that intense gaze again, his green eyes flashing and expressive. “That isn’t going to happen,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to kill you, Emma.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you don’t have another choice.”

“You said you’d let me leave.”

“I will. But if you leave, we’re both dead.”

I sighed and sat back down, frustrated. “I don’t get you. What kind of killer are you?”

He grinned at me. “A pretty fucked-up one.”

I watched as he turned and left the bedroom. “Where are you going?” I called out.

“Sleep,” he said. “You can have the bed.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I kid you not,” he said, and he stripped his shirt off. I couldn’t help but gape at his strong chest covered in tattoos, at the ripped muscles corded along his length. I felt my heart beat hard in my chest, and my pussy was dripping wet.

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