Dark Savior: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (31 page)

I expect her to complain and to remind me that she is the one who won our little bet and now deserves a reward, but she says none of the like.

Instead, she licks her upper lip and whispers: “Thank you.”

Her words send a sizzling shiver through my body. How can she be so innocent and so fucking hot at the same time? That naughty little minx.

Her dark, unsuspecting eyes fixate mine, waiting for a reaction.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

I grab a fistful of her hair at the back of her head and force her to get back up on her feet. She struggles not to lose her balance, but I hardly give her time to cope before I lift her up and place her on the kitchen counter. My motions are clumsy, weakened by that goddamn poison she made me drink, but I manage to place her as I planned.

My hands travel beneath her dress, finding the waistband of her pantyhose. She helps me by lifting her sexy ass so that I can pull them down together with her panties in one move, ripping them in the process. The sound her naked butt cheeks make when they land back on the cold counter drives me crazy.

She is a good girl and eagerly spreads her legs for me while she looks up at me through drunken eyes, with her mouth slightly opened as she breathes heavily.

“What do you want?” I ask, as I stand in front of her, close, very close, rubbing my erection that is still wet with her saliva.

“Fuck me,” she breathes, hardly audible.

“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as if I was threatening her.

I take a step forward with one hand still on my cock while I use the other to touch her. She moans and throws her head back with desperate need when my fingertips reach her wet entrance. I part her lips with two fingers and use my thumb to caress her swollen clit.

“I didn't hear you. Say it again,” I order.

Her reply is another moan. She moves her hips forward, yearning for more. Her lascivious motions excite me even more. It’s hard to hold back instead of ramming myself inside of her like a wild animal.

But I want her to say it. Loud and clear. I don’t only want to see how much she wants this, I want to hear it, too.

“Fuck me,” she pleads, this time louder. “Please, Mars. Fuck me.”

I can feel her wet cunt clenching around me, begging for my cock just as much as her words are. I cannot believe how turned on she is, just as I am. The air is filled with lust and need between us, joined by the danger that spices our relationship.

A danger still unknown to her.

She sighs with disappointment when I withdraw my fingers. But her eyes lighten with excitement when she sees that I am about to replace them with my throbbing girth. Normally, I would tease her with the tip before giving her all of it, and make her beg for more.

But not today.

She exhales audibly as she takes my entire length with one merciless shove. She is so ready for me, I glide inside her warm center with ease.

“Mars,” she breathes.

Her eyes are on me, obscured with desire, but for a moment they appear to shine with something else.

Understanding.

For a few seconds it seems as if she does know. As if she is aware that I am the man she saw that night. The killer. The man who went after her, who tried to kill her, too. The man she ran away from.

I am imagining things.

Of course she doesn’t know, and as soon as I can remind myself of that fact, the alleged glimmer of understanding disappears from her beautiful eyes.

Instead of losing myself in distracting figments, I start pounding her tight center. Her entire body is shaking and shivering, reacting to my motions in the most enticing way.

Soon, way too soon I can feel her muscles clenching around, as she rolls her eyes and her head falls back into her neck while she reaches her climax.

She is too beautiful, too fucking sexy. I have no choice but to follow her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nike

I watch in horror as he walks away from me.

Whistling.

It’s just a few notes, a very short, melancholic melody. A sweet song, actually.

A sweet song—if it weren’t for the memory that is attached to it.

Weeks have passed and I have put all my strength and effort into forgetting about that dreadful night. I have cast it aside like a bad dream, a nightmare that kept haunting me until I finally managed to lock it away. A big, heavy door is keeping that part of my mind sealed from everything else.

And now he has opened that door, giving way to a dreadful realization.

I am still sitting on the kitchen counter, with my bare behind touching the cold marble beneath. My legs are still shivering from the intense orgasm I just had a few moments ago and I am feeling dizzy.

He gave me a kiss and turned around, asking whether I want to join him in the shower before we go to bed—and then he walked away, whistling that melody.

I am actually amazed at myself for recognizing it immediately. After all, I have only heard it once, outside, on a rooftop, muffled by wind and from quite a distance.

But I am sure this is it.

For a brief moment he was whistling that same song the murderer sang that night on the rooftop.

It could be a coincidence, it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just a song that many people know and whistle when they are lost in thought. It could be nothing but a fluke, a cruel trick the universe is playing on me to taunt me.

Or it’s that damn alcohol. Am I imagining things? Am I this drunk, still?

No. It’s not a fluke and it’s not imagination. Something tells me that it’s not.

It is the same song, whistled by the same man.

The man who is walking away on shaky legs, with his beautiful back turned to me as he heads for the bathroom. The man who just fucked me, like he has many times before.

The man I was about to fall in love with.

He is not whistling anymore, as if he just realized his mistake.

If it even was a mistake.

He may not remember that he whistled the exact same song on that night when he killed a guy. He may not be aware of what he is doing.

Or he might be doing it on purpose.

He stops walking just before he reaches the door to the bathroom in the open hallway and turns around to me. His eyes meet mine and I desperately hope that he does not see the shock written all over my face.

For a few painful moments, he just looks at me with an unreadable expression before he asks: “Are you coming?”

I nod. “Yes, I’ll be there in a minute. You… go ahead.”

He raises his eyebrows with confusion but turns around and disappears through the bathroom door.

I can hear my own heart beat pounding against the inside of my head.

This puts so many other things into place. It may have been a scary coincidence that I decided to approach him that night, but if he really is who I think he is, his weird behavior at our first meeting finally makes sense.

He thought I was playing a game, he got so intense and scary, because he thought I knew who he was. He thought I was going to confront him with what had happened just a few days prior to that encounter.

He wore a scarf over his face the night I witnessed him shoot that guy. If anything, I could have recognized him by his eyes, but it was too dark to even see what color they were. It was too dark to recognize anything particular about him, and everything went so fast.

It is one of many reasons why I never went to the police. I knew I couldn’t tell them anything useful, and I was afraid that all it would do was draw attention to myself.

What a twisted irony that he had to be at that fundraiser, looking like a fucking god. A god named Mars.

I always felt as if he knew something, as if there was a reason for his digging, his excessive interest in my thoughts right from the beginning.

He was trying to make me talk, to see whether I talk about this incident at all. That’s why he asked about my secrets so early on. It was unnatural, I should have known.

What if I had mentioned it? Would he have killed me right then and there?

Come to think of it, why hasn’t he killed me yet?

And what was with that talk about me getting inspiration for my own thriller novel? Is this what he was hinting at?

I have no answer to all those questions, but I decide that I’m not going to stick around to find out. I have to get out of here, and I have to be quick, because he is going to wonder where I am very soon.

I jump down from the kitchen counter and quickly fix my clothes, before I grab my little purse and head for the door as quickly as possible without making too much noise. My shoes are the only things that I will leave behind, because I wouldn’t be able to run in them anyway.

My heart beat is out of control and I force myself to keep my breathing as calm as possible when I pass the bathroom door behind which I can hear him showering.

He is waiting for me to hop in and join him. Who knows what else he had planned for the night? Maybe he was just being extra nice and extra fun tonight, because he was planning to kill me?

Was he trying to get me liquored up so the job would be easier?

The water stops running.

I inhale audibly and decide that I should be spending less time on thinking and more time running.

I dart forward and reach for the door, which luckily he kept unlocked. Just as I flee outside into the hallway, I can hear his voice behind me.

“Nike?”

I don’t bother closing the door behind me and start running. I have outrun him and his bullets before, I am sure I can do it again. All I have to do is to find the next police station—or anyone outside on the street who could lead me to one.

I don’t risk waiting for the elevator and make my way down the stairs instead. It’s the first time that I have taken the stairs in this building and I have to realize that running barefoot in pantyhose on sparkling new tiles is a dangerous thing to do. I am in danger of slipping and falling down the stairs many times, as my foot loses grip on the floor and am hanging on to the staircase for dear life.

I am almost downstairs, just reaching the second floor, when I can hear his voice upstairs. He yells my name again. Just once.

Then, I can hear him running down the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Nike

Hearing his steps behind me gives me another push, and I almost fall down the remaining stairs as I speed up and lose my grip on the floor once again.

A strong sense of relief takes a hold of me when I finally reach the door on the ground floor. I fall on to the handle and yank on it as hard as possible to open it.

The door doesn’t move.

“Fuck!”

I throw myself against the door, expecting it to open to the outside.

But it still doesn’t move.

I panic.

Why does this fucking door not open?

I try the handle again, using so much strength that I am starting to sweat while I alternate between pulling on the door and throwing my body against it. However, neither shows any effect. The door stays put, not moving an inch or even giving me a clue as to what might be the right way to open it.

My pulse is running wild and tears join the sweat on my face. I take a step back and lift my arms to push the unkempt hair back that has started to stick to my face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hiss helplessly.

I turn around to see if there’s any other way out. Meanwhile, his chasing steps are coming dangerously close.

I could cry out for help, I probably should. Some of his neighbors might hear me and open their doors. But a lump in my throat prevents me from making even the slightest noise with my voice.

I try to calm myself and close my eyes for a few seconds to breathe. In and out, quick but deep and deliberate.

Calm down. Calm down.

When I open my eyes, I quickly realize that this is exactly what I needed. There is a little hook at the side of the door, slightly above the doorknob, that I haven’t noticed before. I was too busy with panicking to see that there is this little extra lock at the side. I lift it up with my index finger and try the door again, pulling first, pushing next.