I began to take off my jacket while she sat on the bed watching me intently. I walked over and took her hand so that we could stand together. I put her hands on my shirt and guided her fingers to the first button…she slowly undid the button and I felt her hands travel further and further down my chest, unbuttoning the rest along the way until she reached my pants. I felt myself slowly growing underneath the fabric. She knelt down and began to remove my belt and brought my pants down. I felt my cock thickening as she began to caress me through my boxers, its outline clearly visible beneath the fabric of my underwear. Her hands moved up to the waistline of my boxers and she slowly pulled them down, taking in the sight of my bulging dick that yearned for her. She wrapped her fingers around me, gently stroking back and forth, licking and kissing it until the temptation grew to be too much. I took her hand and brought her up, removing one article of clothing at a time. I unbuttoned her. Broken, affectless, the murdered woman does not concern us, as she did not much concern anyone in life, their theory to why she is dead. Ah, we hold the key to something awful, something truly, deliciously awful, that we want. We will start looking after hours, in a small, quiet part of the world. Things can hide in silence. But blood always comes through. It waits. * It twists in his gut, the memory of every no, every dismissive glance, each turned ankle, each beat of a high-heeled retreat. He’s grown to accept the odds, the disadvantages of himself. Even lucky nights are rarely truly lucky. But he persists, like a good soldier, like his daddy had always told him to do with all things, and in that persistence he had grown mean. He doesn’t realize this quite yet, he doesn’t hear the casual disdain in his voice when he compliments women on their bodies, their clothes, doesn’t realize that he sounds rude, even dangerous, when he invites them home for drinks, and more recently,.
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