Page 13 of Reaper's Desire

Except it doesn'tfeelmeaningless.

And that's a problem.

—

I slideon a pair of sunglasses as I head out of the hotel, hoping I don't pass her. I need to shrug off this lingering desire to see her again, to see what she's feeling after last night, and leave it behind. There's no reason for me to feel like I need to see her face, see if she's as wrecked still by last night as I am. I know I satisfied her—I remember the sound of her moans. I fucked her the way she wanted and wore her out—wore us both out—and that should be plenty. That's what I came here for. I have a flight later, and I need to be on it.

I walk back to my own hotel in the midday heat, the sun beating down on my shoulders, and try to shake off the lingering sense of... what? Disappointment? Frustration?

Obsession.That's what it feels like. An obsession I can't explain and don't want to acknowledge.

My hotel is a fifteen-minute walk from hers, and the contrast is stark. Where her hotel is all luxury and elegance, mine is functional and unremarkable. Clean, but basic. The kind of placeI always choose when I'm traveling—anonymous, forgettable, easy to disappear from if I need to. I let myself into my room and drop my phone on the bed. My backpack is sitting by the door where I left it yesterday. I need to shower, change, get some food.

Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.This is insane.

I've killed people for a living for over a decade. I've done things that would make most people sick. I've walked away from jobs without a second thought, without a shred of guilt or remorse. And now I'm sitting here, obsessing over a woman I don't even know, because of one night of sex.

It wasn't just sex.

The thought comes unbidden, and I try to push it away. But it's true. It wasn't just sex. It was something more, something I can't quite articulate even to myself.

There was a connection. A spark. Something that made me feel...alive. I haven't felt that in years.

I stand and walk to the window, looking out at the street below. People are walking by, locals going about their day. The world is moving on, indifferent to my internal turmoil.

I should be moving on too. After my mother died, after I left the military, after I became what I am now—control has been everything. It's what keeps me from falling apart, from becoming the kind of man who loses himself in grief or guilt or any of the other emotions that normal people feel. I don't do emotions. I don't do attachments. I don't dothis.

And yet here I am.

I need to eat. Shower. Clear my head. Maybe then I'll be able to think straight, to make a rational decision about what to do next.

I strip off last night's clothes and get in the shower, trying to ignore the way my cock swells at the scent of her perfumewashing off my skin and lingering in the steam. But before I know it, just that smell has me so stiff my cockhead is nearly touching my abdomen. I groan, wrapping my hand around it, and wince at the soreness from everything we did last night. I haven't fucked like that in…

God, I can't even remember the last time I fucked a woman with that kind of wild abandon. Definitely not more than twice in one night… I remember her sucking me off, too. I haven't come three times in one night since my early twenties.

And now I have my hand wrapped around my dick again, like I'm still desperate to come after all of that. It's moving before I even make the conscious decision to jerk off again, and I let out a hiss of pleasure between my teeth, pain lacing it as my hand moves over my aching length. Just one more time.God, one more, thinking about?—

Champagne glittering on her lips. Sweat on her back as she arched underneath me. How wet and tight and fuckingperfecther pussy felt. I feel my balls tighten at that memory, and I stroke harder, faster, heedless of the fact that it hurts as well as feels fucking good. I just need to come again. Need to?—

I groan as I start to spurt against the tile, toes curling against the shower floor as I feel the pleasure race down my spine and out of me.Fuck.

I slow my strokes, squeezing the last of my cum out of my throbbing dick before rocking back on my heels and drawing in a long, shaky breath.

Fine. I got that out of my system.But it doesn't feel like I did. Not even once I've dried off and dressed and grabbed my wallet so I can head out and find some food. It still feels like she's lingering on the periphery of my thoughts, waiting there to drive me insane again.

Doing my best to ignore it, I head down the street until I find a small café a few blocks from the hotel. I order a sandwich and aBloody Mary, and sit at a table by the window so I can watch the people pass by.

None of them are her.

The sandwich is delicious, hot chicken doused in a thick, mustardy sauce and piled high with grilled mushrooms and onions on thick, crusty sourdough bread, with a pile of crispy fries next to it, shimmering with the duck fat they were fried in. It's exactly the kind of greasy hangover food I need right now, but I barely taste it. All I'm thinking about is the wayshetasted last night.

By the time I finish eating, it's past two in the afternoon. I should go back to the hotel, pack my things, head to the airport. But instead, I linger at the café, sipping another Bloody Mary and watching the people pass by, the scenery around me.

The island is beautiful in the daylight. Whitewashed buildings with blue shutters, narrow cobblestone streets, the smell of salt and sunscreen in the air. Tourists everywhere, laughing and taking photos, living their best lives.

I'm not one of them. I've never been one of them. But for a moment—just a moment—I let myself imagine what it would be like. To be normal. To be someone who could meet a woman in a club, have an incredible night, and then actually pursue something more.

To be someone who wasn't a killer.