Dalton
The power is still out an hour later. I lean my weight against the window sill, rain seeping through the screen as I take a drag from my cigarette and look at the wind-beaten marsh beyond the boundary of the backyard. The storm is finally moving away, the dark clouds funneling in the distance as the storm nears the Gulf. What little moonlight there is to be had illuminates the room in pale silver.
Dressed in only my sweatpants, the cool, stormy air brushes over my naked chest as I keep my eyes on the cemetery in the distance.
Hearing Layla’s anguished screams for help earlier tonight rocked me to my core, and there’s nothing I can do to ease her fear now. No, this has gone too far. This place has already sunk its teeth into her flesh, and there’s no escape now--for either of us.
Another drag of my cigarette clears my head enough to break out of the sex-fueled haze I’ve been languishing in for the last hour, standing by the window while listening to the house rage all around me.
The door rattles for the hundredth time. I pay it no mind.
I turn and lean my back against the wall, crossing my arms as I watch Layla sleep. Her back is to me, her hair falling like sheets of gold across my pillow. My bed will smell like her tonight–that sweet, honeysuckle scent that has me in a chokehold. I’m supposed to be running her out of this house, this town, not watching her sleeping naked and prone in my bed.
She stirs, shifting her position ever so slightly to lie on her side, which causes the sheets to slip down over that full, round ass.
My jaw flexes as I exhale, chewing my bottom lip.
I’m hard again, aching for her. I want nothing more than to feel her clamp down on my cock while she comes. God, that had been paradise.
I’m moving toward the bed before I can stop myself. I climb out of my joggers and slide in beside her, rolling her over onto her stomach. She makes a sleepy little noise of surprise, lifting her head.
“Shhh…” I whisper. I slide on top of her and guide my cock between her legs. She’s fucking soaked all right, and it takes little effort to bury my cock inside her tight, wet pussy in a single thrust.
She moans, arching her hips to meet me stroke for stroke as I slowly pull out and press in again, taking my time and relishing in the feel of her clamping down around me. She fits me like a glove. Like she was made for me.
I lean down, tangling my fingers in her hair, and growl into her ear, “Who do you belong to?”
“You,” she moans, sucking in a breath as I continue to rail into her from behind. Her fingers curl into the pillow, her brow furrowed in concentrated bliss. “I belong to you–oh, God, Dalton–”
“Good girl,” I rasp, already on the edge of release. I guide her hips upward, wrapping my arm around her waist to hold her exactly where I need her. “You’re such a good girl.”
I feel her climax building with each thrust, her walls tightening around mine in warning. I let out my breath in a groan when she comes undone around me, crying out my name to the ceiling, and I unleash myself, coming hard still buried inside of her.
I clutch her to my chest as we lie in bed together, her lashes brushing over my skin as she fights to stay awake. I barely sleep as it is, but with her lying beside me, I find it practically impossible.
Every thump and bump in the night carries new weight as I brush my knuckles over her arm, my eyes locked on the ceiling. If I stay awake, I can stop her before she falls back into a dream. If I stay awake, I can keep my eyes on the shadows creeping closer to the bed from every corner. But my eyes grow heavy, and the rain stops, the room around us dropping into suffocating silence.
It’s nearly morning when I get out of bed and dress, slipping a shirt over Layla’s head. I pick her up, still wrapped in a sheet, and carry her out of the room. Her head lulls on my shoulder as she sleeps, unaware that I’m laying her down in her own bed and tucking her in tight. I pull back the curtains, letting in the first rays of sunshine dusting over the property in the promise of heat and mild weather.
The power kicks back on twenty minutes later as I crouch in my studio, stretching a length of canvas over a frame.
Shortly thereafter, I hear the crunch of tires bouncing over the cracked cement in the driveway. I edge away from the table where I’d been mixing paint and stand beside the window, just out of the glare of the sun.
Bailey steps out of her car dressed in pale pink scrubs that bring out the deep cinnamon of her skin. She pushes her dark curls behind her ears as she squints up at the house, a soft smile touching her lips as she exhales deeply and smiles.
She’s innocent and oblivious.
I wish Layla had had that kind of freedom from this place.
But once the demon that lives here sinks its talons into a person’s flesh, it’s over. I would know, because it happened to me, and now I’m trapped just like Layla will be if I don’t keep her out of harm's way.
Laying claim to her means nothing if he’s already in her head.
I walk back to my work table and pick up my palette of paint, each shade an attempt to capture the ribbons of gold and platinum that haunt my dreams.
A sketch of Layla–naked and looking over her shoulder–fans out before me as I lift my brush to the canvas.