The lure of her body is too strong to resist. I rise up and slam into her. The table screeches as the force of my thrusts push the legs against the wood floor. Despite her bound arms, her hands clench the sides of the table and I hear her shouts of encouragement through the fog of desire to come inside her, take her, make her mine.
My love for her is madness incarnate. She should run far away, but I would only chase her down and capture her. We mate with the force of two lovers who have not held each other in an age. I hear her cry and then feel the flood of her orgasm. I plunge between her legs, bending over her to hold one edge of the table myself. The entire thing clatters and shakes under the force of my thrusts. She rises on her toes and pushes back to meet every powered forward movement until it is I who throws back my head and howls my claiming to the empty night.
I rest my head on her sweaty back to gather myself.
“It is a good thing you love me,” I murmur drowsily into her skin. With some effort I push away from her and release her bound arms. Kneeling on the floor, I help to tug off her jeans. Above me I watch as rivulets of my sperm and her release trek down her inner thighs.
“Why is that?” she asks.
I don’t answer at first because I am mesmerized by the milky trail snaking its way down her inner leg. Mine, these marks cry.
“Because if you had no love for me, I would be a madman, chasing you. Wanting you and never being able to have you would be the worst torture.”
She steps out of her jeans and then reaches for a dishtowel to wipe away the signs of my possession. Disappointment strikes me until I raise my eyes and see the tattoo over her heart. There, I think, there is my mark.
“Then yeah, it’s a good thing we love each other.”
She raises her arms above her head, her chest rising with the movement. I feel a stirring in my groin. She gives me a knowing glance. “Again, Nick?”
“It is your cookies,” I say and then grin at her. Straightening, I pull her against me. “I am utterly yours, Daisy. It is good for the world you have a kind heart. Because if you asked I would burn it down.”
***
“Mr. Anders, mind if I sit?”
I do not need to look to know it is my professor of Dimensional Painting. I saw him walking toward me a few minutes ago. He’d paused by a trash can and emptied something out of the pocket of his heavy black woolen overcoat. It’s bulky and brushes his calves, but would be good for hiding a long arm. I prefer the shorter coats that allow for more movement. A long arm isn’t well suited for targets in close distance. I prefer—
I give myself a shake. I have left the world of killing behind me. Now my only targets are paper ones. I have no need of a long arm or handgun in this place. I have one, of course, along with knives in my boots. Though I am no longer in the business of killing people, I would feel naked without a weapon.
“Please.” I gesture at the space of concrete next to me. “It is more yours than mine.”
“Given what students pay for an education, I think you can claim ownership to at least one bench.” He smiles kindly and sits beside me.
I should care about the costs, but I do not. I have plenty of money, and though it was earned in a fashion that would shock and dismay the man next to me and nearly every other person on this large campus, it will provide for my Daisy.
To fit in, however, I will complain. “Yes, education is very costly.”
“You need to put more conviction behind that, son. It doesn’t sound believable. Trust fund?” He looks me over carefully. “Or tech billionaire? You look too hard to be a trust fund kind and a little too old.” My surprise must be on display for he chuckles and points to his eyes. “I’m an artist. We are supposed to be observant. It’s what I like about your art. You notice the small details. The tiny cracks in a pitcher or the gilding flaking off the mirror.”
“The small details are often the most important,” I admit. In my career, the slightest wind change could mean the difference between a successful hit and failure. I do not take my eyes off my targets.
Inside the building Daisy is speaking to another girl. The girl asks her for something. Daisy looks disappointed but then smiles. She reaches into her bag and pulls out papers and hands them to the girl. The girl then begins copying. A user. This girl is using my Daisy.
“Do you plan on applying to the fine arts program?” the professor murmurs beside me. I try to pay attention, as a normal student would. “I’ve spoken to your advisor and he confessed that you hadn’t made up your mind. I think you have real promise.”
You have real promise, Nikolai. Your marksmanship is acute. Don’t think too hard about the target. Think about your weapon. Think about yourself as merely an extension of the weapon. You and the metal are one being.