Page 73 of Into Pitch

I could pull back, but I don’t.

I kiss her again, forcing her to slow down as she tries to battle out all that emotion with her teeth and tongue. Her body presses forward and I feel the pull deep inside, one that tells me this can go off the rails and she wouldn’t stop me from bending her over the back of the recliner right now.

And fuck, I want to do it.

I want to bury myself in her over and over again. I want to carve my name into her skin and make her beg for the pain it brings. Until she can’t figure out what it means to bleed or breathe.

But we’ve made progress tonight, and fucking her now would only blow us right back to square one where we started. She’d wake up angry with herself and with me, and then I’d lose the precious steps we are taking to opening her all the way up.

I end it before it can spiral, reaching up to place my fingers to her lips to keep her from moving forward again. Her impossibly green eyes bounce up to my own in breathless confusion.

I slowly trail my fingers from her lips to her chin and she swallows thickly. My hand snaking around the back of her neck to settle in the spun gold of her hair. She just exhales and rests her forehead against my chest, like she’s recalibrating herself around the contact.

The dark little presence that lives within Pitch, one I keep so carefully leashed rears its head. And instead of ignoring it, I allow it indulgence just for this moment.

Mine.

I hum as I drop my chin to the top of her head, my fingers massaging her scalp softly as the night settles around us.

Not yet, I remind that dark piece.

But soon.

Forced captivity is fun.

Forced captivity in the woods is really fun.

Said no one ever.

I sulk before the tv, cereal bowl in hand and hair a mess because I haven’t bothered to fix it. Not like I was going out regardless, so there wasn’t much of a point. If Alex cares, he hasn’t made comment though he did take a generous peek at it this morning with an arch of his brow.

Hate it for him.

If he wanted hot, then he shouldn’t have snatched me up and dragged me out into the middle of Bum-Fuck-Egypt.

I’m currently spooning an absorbent amount of cheerio into my maw when my spoon pauses mid shovel, my focus sharpening on the TV and the name being splashed across it.

My name.

A muted news ticker crawls across the bottom of the screen like it might rearrange itself into something less catastrophic if I don’t look directly at it. Then comes the beautiful news anchor with her perfect lashes and pristine makeup to spin up a warning about a missing local woman.

“—twenty-three-year-old Sadie Morgan—”

There it is.

My face fills the screen.

And you know when you ask people if they are going to post wanted posters of you after you go missing, to choose the right one? Well, whoever chose my photo is a dick. It’s a photo from my old ID where I’m pale, tired, and my hair is pulled back far too tight. Not to mention my eyes look like they’ve been on a three day bender even though I’ve never touched a drug in my life, despite being around copious amounts of it as a child.

My stomach drops hard and fast as the woman speaks about the missing local bartender. Last seen leaving her place of work where she lived behind it in a renovated bus. Nice of them to air my laundry like that and make it seem worse than what it actually is. She states my friends are concerned, which really means singular because I’ve not got more than one past Imogen. Alexander certainly doesn’t count.

Police are asking for any information about my whereabouts, though there is no history of running off. They clearly didn’t do too thorough of a background check before airing, because I’ve been doing nothing but running my entire life.

Ah, well… maybe the cabin makes a little more sense in that context. As annoying as that is to admit.

I don’t pay attention to the rest. Instead, I let the spoon slip from my fingers back into the bowl with a clatter. My eyes turn slowly to where Alex is sitting in the chair near the window, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in his hands. If he’s heard any of the report, he hasn’t reacted at all. Not even a flinch.

My chest tightens, not just with fear, but with something uglier. Hotter.