Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 18
the wolf
her underwear and climbs over the edge of the bathtub without another word. I'm watching her every move with rapt attention, studying the minute details about her that I've missed from afar.
I can tell I unnerved her when I brought up that night. She thought her secrets were protected—buried deep beneath the web of lies she’s spun. She should know nothing is safe with me.
Once she's fully submerged, I walk around the edge and crouch behind her.
“Relax, little lamb. Let me take care of you,” I whisper against her neck, earning a small moan that seems to hit me in all the right places.
I feel guilty for scaring her when all I meant to do was help her unwind. This is all new to me, and I'm just fumbling through it.
Every reaction she has to my presence feeds my addiction. The sharp intake of breath when my hands wrap around her shoulders. The way her head tilts back as my fingers dig into tightly wound muscles. The tightening of her thighs as my hands venture across her skin.
I haven't allowed myself to touch her since that first night. I tell myself it's about not having her permission, but it's deeper than that. A sick internal game I'm playing—a test of my resilience. But the anticipation of feeling her beneath my fingertips was enough to drive me mad. I spent multiple nights wide awake as I imagined how she would taste when I finally got my mouth on her.
This bath is just as much about me as it is about her.
My hand moves along her collarbone and stops at the top of her left breast, feeling her heartbeat. She sucks in a breath, subtly pushing her chest forward to move my palm downward the same way she had done in her sleep. I comply, gently closing my fingers around her nipple.
“Do you like when I touch you?”
“Yes,” she hisses the admission, and it's like the sound is sent straight to my growing erection pressing against the tub.
My other hand comes down and kneads her right breast. I'm leaning over her with my arms wrapped around either side of her head, which is thrown back against my shoulder, hair brushing my neck where my mask has been slightly shifted. Eventually, her hand disappears somewhere beneath the surface of bubbles between her legs and I want to fucking kick myself for adding so much of the useless soap.
“That's it. Rub your fingers all over yourself, little lamb. Imagine those are my hands bringing you pleasure.”
I can feel every unsteady breath and irregular heartbeat thrumming against my skin in a symphony curated just for me as she works her fingers against her clit and pushes her chest into my hands.
This wasn't my intention when I started the bath for her this evening. I'd been following her around for three days, watching her bounce from one place to the next—one random job to another. It was exhausting. I wanted to do something nice for her. I can't even begin to explain why. I don't do nice. Even Sienna, who I respected more than anyone else, never received this kind of treatment from me.
I told myself it was because I was preparing to kill her. She deserves a moment of luxury before I steal everything away. But now that I'm here, it's like my instincts have taken over and I couldn't find the will to kill her even if I tried.
She appears to experience the same conflicting feelings toward me—distrustfully questioning me one moment, then pleasuring herself in front of me the next.
Every moment I've spent denying myself the taste and feel of her over the past few weeks has built up to this insatiable need to have it all. And she's so goddamn willing to hand it over.
I pull away from her to move to the other side of the tub and face her, relishing the frustrated growl that leaves her lips at my disappearance.
“I want to touch you so bad,” I admit through a pained breath, my gaze pinned on the cluster of soap between her legs.
“Then touch me, Bash,” she urges.
Hearing my name on her lips is intoxicating. I almost didn’t tell her, too afraid to give her anything she could dig into and find more information about. But whatever fallout might come from having her discover who I really am is worth it. This is worth it.
Soon.
“You should be afraid of me. I could hurt you… In fact, I probably will. I’m not the hero in this story,” I warn, shrugging off my black hoodie to prevent it from getting any wetter.
For a moment, she simply stares up at me with that frustratingly indistinguishable look I’ve seen her wear countless times. Her eyes track my movements as I grab her shampoo from the floor and squirt it into my palm. I can’t stand that I don’t know what’s going through her head.
She should run. I wouldn’t even blame her for it. Of course, I’d chase her. But at least then I would know she possessed some semblance of self-preservation.
I’m almost positive that’s what she’s about to do, as she hesitates to answer me. Instead, she surprises me by saying, “I’m not afraid of dying. I've already done that. I’m afraid of not living.”
I move back behind her and fall to my knees, using the excuse to escape her punishing gaze as I analyze what those words mean.
“Wet your hair,” I command.
She obeys, dunking her head backward into the water so she can look up at my face hovering above her. There's a long moment where we just stare at each other, our expressions soaked in understanding.
I'm afraid of not living.
So am I.
Ever since Sienna died, it's like my soul has gone missing. The very thing that makes me me is nowhere to be found. I came into this world as one half of a whole and when she left, half of me left with her.
I've been telling myself that these murders have been retribution for her death, but maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe they're also retribution for my death as well. Because the instant my twin sister took her last breath, I may as well have taken mine, too.
Now I'm stuck here, a fraction of myself—living, but not entirely alive. It's like Stardust somehow understands what I feel without ever making me admit it.
Once she's satisfied with whatever she was looking for in my face, she lifts her head out of the water and faces forward again. I clear my throat, massaging the shampoo into her scalp before I unintentionally reveal anything else to her. She relaxes into my touch, moving her head around to give me better access. It's somehow the most erotic thing I've ever experienced with a woman. The way she blindly trusts me to care for her, even after I’ve broken into her home and violated her privacy.
I can’t decide if she’s absolutely insane or just as dangerous as me. The most unsettling part is that I don’t give a fuck either way.
When I’m finished shampooing, she dunks under again to rinse, then we repeat the process with the conditioner. Neither one of us speaks a word the entire time. Where the silence should be uncomfortable—deafening, even—it feels the exact opposite. It’s like I can hear her thoughts dancing off the tiles around us, and I’m sending my own signals to her in the same way.
Only when her hair is fully washed, do I dare to speak.
“Done,” I tell her softly, but she doesn't bother moving away from me.
My fingers trail down the sides of her neck, and she leans her head against my wrist. Without thinking, I move her hair to the side and lean forward, pulling my mask down far enough to place my lips behind her ear in a gentle kiss.
She exhales a breath, turning her head away to allow me better access as I run my mouth down the column of her throat, teeth grazing against her skin. When I make it to her shoulder, I clamp down, earning a squeal.
I move away from her again, readjusting my mask to grab a rag as her eyes track me carefully. I'm fighting every instinct I have to rip her out of the water and throw her onto the bed so that I can finally have my way with her. But patience is a virtue, and forcing myself to use restraint will only make it that much sweeter when I finally consume her.
With as much delicacy as I can muster, I begin to scrub the rag against her skin, starting with the wrist closest to me, where her hand is tightly clutching the edge of the tub in anticipation of my next move. I make quick work of washing her, and she doesn't ever seem to fully relax against my touch. I'm not sure if my presence beside her unsettles her or if she's simply not used to being taken care of, but both scenarios are enough to push me to continue.
Once I reach the apex of her legs—the spot I really want to be caressing—I'm extra careful not to brush my skin against hers. Still, the thin fabric is the only thing between us, and my resilience is hanging on by a thread until I finish my task, dropping the rag into the water.
My eyes lock back onto hers, and I'm moving toward her before my brain can catch up.