He came and stood in front of me. His eyes looked more green than gray, maybe from the reflection of my dress fabric. His hands touched my shoulders, his fingers sliding up and down lightly. Framing his vision of me. I wondered what he saw. A helpless girl, a willing victim. I would show him that I would not go gently.
“Beautiful. Thank you for wearing it for me.”
He paused, looking into my face, then spoke in a low voice that hinted at flirting.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“What do I want?”
My voice was shaky, and I swore that he knew what I was planning. But he only looked at me calmly, the look of a predator who had his prey trapped. Playing with me, that’s what he was doing.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you for dressing up nicely for me. Now what do you want in return?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I want you to let me go. You won’t do that?”
In my heart I prayed for him to say yes. Then I wouldn’t have to hurt him. I wouldn’t have to kill him. I wouldn’t have to escape on my own.
“No,” he said, equally calmly.
“Then I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”
His hands squeezed my shoulders gently, above the bandages. His voice whispered into my ear.
“I do.”
One hand trailed down my hand, his fingertips feeling their way down to my hip. I held my breath as he passed over the place in my bra where I had hidden the razor. But he did not stop until his hand was resting on the curve just below my waist. My heart beat fast.
“I know what you want.”
With his other hand he tilted my chin up. My lips parted willingly as I let him kiss me.
Only pretend, my mind screamed. That’s all this was. It was only a game, all of it. But my body urged me on, enjoyed the kiss, wanted more, wanted it all. And the small voice inside of me murmured encouragement.
Yes, it said. This is what you want. This is what you need.
My tongue met his, hot and wanting. He cupped my cheek in one hand, cupped my ass in the other, pulled me toward him with his heat and his desire and every dangerous wonderful thing that I never had before.
Adrenaline pulsed through me, sending every nerve to high alert. He clutched me tight and I felt the razor’s edge cutting into my skin. His hands moved over my back, ran through my hair, and all the while he kissed me and I kissed back, palms against his chest, in that hopeless position of wanting more and wanting it all to be over.
Then he reached down. His hand crumpled the green gauzy fabric, pulled the hem up until it bunched at my waist. He sought the place between my thighs and found me wet and burning down there.
It was true, I wanted him. The attraction that shamed me made him believe me. He suspected nothing, because the moan that shuddered me was real when he touched me down there, let his fingers graze my swollen sex through the silk panties. Under my bra the razor was cutting me and still I pushed further, letting him kiss me harder, touch me harder.
“I’ve wanted you so badly,” he murmured, his voice catching on the words. It was the first time I had heard any emotion in his voice. “It’s never like this. It’s never real.”
It’s not real now, I thought. Nothing was real, not the desire that burned in me and made me soak through my panties. Not the kisses he pressed down on my mouth, my neck. Not the thrill of his fingertips against my bare skin. It was all pretend. All pretend.
He lifted the dress up, and I dug my hands under the top to help lift it off over my shoulders. He couldn’t see me reach down into the bra where I had the razor hidden. Quickly my fingers found the blade and pulled it out.
It was the pause that did it. The moment of hesitation when his arms were lifted over my head, helping me out of the dress. The split second where I was uncertain.
No, it was the blood where the razor had cut me. The red blade slipping in between my fingers, even though I clutched it tightly.
No, it was my own conscience. Every moral, every rule I’d followed for years, coming back to tell me not to do this, not to kill, not to murder.
No, it was none of these and all of these that made me fail. I don’t know, not even now, not even looking back on it with clear eyes.
A breath of hesitation, and then I lunged forward with the razor, slicing it at his throat. His arm was already blocking my path, and he saw the red-silver glint of the blade, and he swatted my hand down. The razor sliced across his chest as he jumped back, cutting him. A shallow cut. Not enough.
He leapt backwards, his face snapping shut on the emotions I had been surprised to see. Blood trickled down his chest from the cut I’d made just above his left nipple. We faced each other, predator and prey, and I knew that it was over.