Perfect Villain (Dark Lies Duet 1)

Siân huddles over with one hand on her neck and the other on the piss-riddled ground to support herself as she struggles to pull air into her lungs. She coughs, and when I try to help her up, she swats at my hands and stumbles back against the building. I stand here a minute, not wanting to just leave her like this, something unusual for me. I don’t care about my actions or how they affect people, and I never feel remorse. But despite how fucking hard I just came, I don’t like the idea of using her and leaving her.

I have to, though, so that I can come back to her as Christian. She’s going to need him—she’s going to need me.

Stuffing myself back into my jeans, I walk backward toward the edge of the alley. And with one last glance at Siân, I turn and check to be sure the coast is clear before turning the corner once and then one more time to tuck behind another building and yank the mask from my face. But I can’t leave her. I won’t leave her alone and exposed like that.

So instead of getting the hell out of Dodge, I wait just a few feet away, peeking around the old, red brick building until, finally, I see her leave the alley. Her hair is a mess, her clothes hang awkwardly on her body, and she hugs herself tightly. When she quickly looks around, I duck out of the way, peeking out again to find her disappearing around the corner toward her home.

Once she’s out of sight, I step out onto the sidewalk and speed walk to catch up with her. Keeping my distance, I stay close to be sure no one bothers her—to keep her safe. And when she runs up the stairs to her front door and bursts inside, I wait across the street at my regular spot for her to call. I know she will—she always does.

18

SIN

I’ve never been that scared in all my life. Not when I found the note. Not any of the other times my stalker has announced himself. I was entirely at his mercy, unaware of what he’d want from me next.

And no matter how hard I fought him, it didn’t matter. That was the worst of all, the terror of knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nobody to help me. No mercy from him.

Nausea churns my stomach, gnawing at my insides. I barely make it to the kitchen, launching myself at the sink, leaning into it, and gagging hard enough to make my entire body seize painfully. Over and over, I gag, emptying what little was in my stomach and splashing it around the drain.

His cum must be in there. Oh, God. Nausea strong enough to cripple me rolls over my body, and I gag harder than ever. Now there’s nothing to do but dry heave until the worst of it passes. Once I can take a breath without my stomach clenching, I turn on the tap and hold a glass under the flow with a shaking hand. I rinse my mouth carefully, afraid I might start gagging again at the sensation of having anything in my mouth. Even water.

What if he didn’t really run off? What if he followed me home? He’d see the house is empty except for me. He could come in here and continue what he started. There’d be so many more opportunities to do all kinds of painful, shameful things to me. No chance of somebody walking past and hearing the noise. Not even any rodents running around.

Every little sound in the house makes me jump, though it’s amazing I can hear anything over the thudding of my heart. My fight-or-flight response is still going strong. He could be anywhere. At the back door—my head snaps around in that direction like I’ll find that hooded figure standing outside. Watching me fumble around at pulling myself together after he defiled me.

After he forced me.

After I sort of liked it.

My stomach tightens again, and I squeeze my eyes shut, like that will do anything to block out what just happened. I can’t be alone right now. I can’t drown in this, which is exactly what will happen if I allow myself to stew in it. Blaming myself for not fighting harder to stop him.

Hating myself for becoming aroused. My panties are soaked, plastered to my pussy lips. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, and I know I should change if only to clean myself up, but a part of me wants to suffer. To punish myself for being filthy enough to enjoy what he was forcing me to do.

Fresh juices flow from me at the memory, and I cringe in disgust. Who am I? Why am I still aching and wet? I should be weeping, scrubbing myself clean in the shower, not getting more turned on every time I remember some new aspect of what just happened. Right?