Two years later, at one of the parties Sophie hosted, I got a bit drunk and there was a handsome guy in the bar—who knows what his name was? We ended up in his hotel room, and he showed me there was good sex in this world. Actually, he took great care of me, and I was so dazzled that the next day I wanted to try it again immediately. My body was sore in all the right places, and I had a stupid grin on my face. Unfortunately, my one-night stand was gone, so I moved on. There weren’t many guys to date, so I had to stay celibate again.
All those experiences flashed through my mind as I was lying on my stomach on the bed, minutes after he left the room. My body was sweaty, sticky from his cum, and satisfied in ways it had never been before. It was like he knew what my body wanted and gave it to me. Within seconds, Damian made me forget I hated him and what he did.
From our very first encounter, I had an idea of his skills, but actual penetration took it to another level. Even after being kidnapped and everything, I had no idea I could lose my head in so much pleasure, that the man inside me might feel so good. That I would crave his touch, his tongue, and his lips. His everything. What we shared still made me feel dizzy and disoriented.
Was I supposed to feel humiliated? I did, but not because of what happened, but of how he behaved afterward, as though I was a whore he had used.
Maybe to him I was. For all I knew, there were other women he liked to use. Did I really expect some kind of connection with him? Stupid me. And crazy.
He killed people; having sex with me didn’t make him a good guy. Maybe I was slowly developing Stockholm syndrome. Or maybe I had never imagined a serial killer to be my one who got away.
I pushed up, wincing slightly from the sore muscles that hadn’t been used for a long time, and the substances that were leaking down my thighs.
Maybe I should have been terrified that he took me bareback, but knowing him, he made sure to check himself and me. Somehow, I was sure of that, and I couldn't get pregnant—there was only a two percent chance of me ever getting pregnant due to the pills I’d taken since high school—so, there was no pregnancy scare either. My body was shaking, but on unsteady legs, I went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and stood under the spray.
Suddenly, I was sobbing with my head in my hands while my back was against the cold tiles. The humidity and hot water could do nothing to warm me up.
I hated him for making me feel like this, and more importantly, I hated him for giving me the best sex of my life and then leaving. I just hated him period for showing up in my life.
I was so engrossed in my so-called breakdown that at first I didn’t notice I wasn't alone in the shower anymore.
Strong arms scooped me up, and I opened my eyes to see Damian’s chest in front of me. I felt the room spinning and moving, and then we were out of that bathroom, and within seconds, in another. He marched straight into the warm room, where I noticed a bathtub full of water and bubbles. Without another word, he put me in and removed his boxers. He sat behind me and pulled me back to him, so I had no choice but to lean against him. He hugged me tight under my breasts, and I felt his breath on my neck.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered, and I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash over me while I cried silently. I had no strength left in me to fight him, to escape from him, or to protect myself.
I was just tired.
I didn't understand what was going on.
The hot water was soothing my muscles, the ache inside me, and combined with his arms, it finally was making me feel warm.
“Tell me.”
He didn't need to ask what I meant. We both knew what I wanted to hear, and I heard him take a deep breath as his head rested back against the bathtub wall. “I saw you and wanted you to be mine. There isn't much of an explanation to this, Sapphire.” His tone was steady and sure. He wasn't apologizing, far from it.
“My feelings don’t matter?” My words were whispered, but even I could hear pain in them. No one ever really cared what I felt, and for some odd reason, the idea of him being just like everyone else broke something inside me.
He was silent for few moments, and I thought he wouldn't answer me, when he finally spoke.
“No.” I tensed and tried to move away, but his hands around me were firm. “I just wanted you.” He sounded angry, as though it was my fault, as though he was the one who should be offended with what happened.
“What happened today doesn’t change anything.” I wanted him to know that maybe it was the best sexual experience of my life, but he was still who he was, and I was me.
I couldn't be a woman who loved a serial killer.
I couldn’t be my mother, who spent her whole life with a monster.