Page 64 of Pink Ink
It’d be stupid to even entertain the idea.
How would that conversation even go, anyway?
Maddox, I know what you are.
Say it. Out loud. Say it.
Serial killer.
Yeah, I doubt it.
“What about bees? Are you into them? Beekeeping, I mean.” I internally cringe. He’s probably not quite beekeeping age just yet.
He stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Do I strike you as the type of person who would be intobeekeeping?”
That was a stupid question. “Just, um, it’s a common allergy.” I try to play it off.
“Areyouallergic to bees?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
He frowns skeptically at me. “Good.” Shaking his head, Maddox continues, “As I was saying, it’s the same issue as last time. The kill doesn’t suit the crime.”
I nod along because I don’t trust myself not to say something ridiculous. I need to get off this couch if I want to think about anything other than Dream Maddox fucking me on it.
“Much of the film repeatedly provides themes of purity and cleanliness, yet the murder involves a substantial amount of bloodshed without reason.” He looks at me, waiting for me to say something.
“He does choke him,” I stutter.
I sound so stupid. That’s barely a complete sentence.
The killer doesn’t really choke him. It’s more of a crappy headlock that didn’t result in anything more than the victim’s physical struggle.
“You call that choking?” Maddox says, voice low.
His eyes are on my lips.
No, my throat.
The temperature rises too quickly to acclimate before it’s burning my flesh, and I’m there again, under him in my dreams, watching him thrust into me. Real-life Maddox is right in front of me, and he too is staring at me like every thought that runs through his mind is more depraved than the last, and he’s debating whether to reenact every last one of them.
My chest tightens when his eyes darken like the beast within won the battle, and he’s spotted his prey.
“Sit back.”
The demand takes me off guard.
Rationally, I know I’m an independent woman who should fight back against a man who thinks he can order me around. Irrationally, I want to know why he’s unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves.
Following instructions was never my strong suit. My ability to listen to authority is worse. And yet I wet my bottom lip and tentatively place the notebook and cushion aside. My gaze is trained on him, tracking his every move. He does the same to me.
Every flicker of a tendon. The glide of my silk dress against my skin. The fall of my hair over my shoulder. He sees it all.
He rises from the chair. Stalks forward. Stopping right above me. “Do you know what it’s like to be choked, Miss Sinaga?”
The tension building in my core makes it hard to breathe. I shake my head once.
He hums to himself, considering. Then slowly,leisurely, like he’s making sure I’m watching, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Each move is precise. Intentional. Fold by fold, he keeps going until I can see the muscles in his forearms flex with his movements.
