::SEVEN::

Now that she has me here, she seems a little unsure. No fear, no doubts about whether it’s wise to bring the lover of a convicted mass murderer into your private room or not. This is a shyness, a nervousness, that all her act of dominance in the lounge can’t hide. All it would take is a word from me, a move in her direction, and she would bolt.

So of course I do neither. She needs to come to me. Like she needed to tell me what she does, or needed to make a point of the importance of her position. Janette craved power. The simple fact of her fascination with killers attested to that, there being few things in existence more powerful than death, or the willingness and ability to inflict it.

I make a point of turning my back to her, moving towards the small low couch at the foot of her bed. She’s dropping the lights, to a soft dim glow, as I curl onto the dark green velvet couch. I often sit like this with Riddick, leaning back into his chest, my legs curled under me, toes just over the edge of the couch. I lean back into the padded arm, and think of him. Think of keeping as much of me open as possible, so that, if he were here behind me, there is no part of me he couldn’t stroke or touch, if he wanted to.

That I’ve kicked my shoes off, and clearly look so comfortable, has put her at ease again, and she sits at the very edge of the couch, to pour us more wine. I lean forward to take the wine from her, the silk of my blouse tightening over my breast, over my nipple, hard now, just thinking of Riddick. Lean back slowly again, the outline of my nipple no longer visible. Unimportant, as she can’t help but see it now, whether it shows or not. A small adjustment of the hips, as though to get comfortable, has her notice the rest of me.

She kicks her own shoes off. The jacket to her sensible navy business suit now flung on a chair opposite. A flicker of tongue over lower lip, the nervous tic of tucking her hair behind her ear. Reaching once again for the briefcase. When she thinks of sex, she thinks of power, of her career. The only outward display of the subtle masculinity she has always felt, but could never show. The briefcase in her lap, what papers she has, removed, exposed. The beautiful picture of Riddick and I, on the top of the pile.

I wait, until she has settled again, her back reclined into the arm of the couch, the curve of her body stiffer than mine, but similar, in a lot of ways. Let her take a sip of wine, before stretching forward again, further, reaching into her lap, for the photograph. Leave my hand there, resting on her briefcase, for half a moment. Eye contact.

“May I?”

Listen as she swallows, her mouth slightly open. As though the briefcase weren’t there at all, and I had touched HER instead. Perhaps in a way I had, what she did for a living becoming so much an extension of who she believed herself to be. I don’t lie back again, as I take the picture from her lap, but stay, not quite leaning in, but closer. Her index finger fidgets with a raised monogram on the briefcase, slow circles. If she’s aware at all of what she’s imitating, she doesn’t show it.

“I…” Her voice is a little rougher, coarser. She clears her throat, and begins again. “I had that copied from…well…it’s not important now. Miss. Brightman?….”

“Sarah. You can call me Sarah, Janette.”

I’ve always loved to hear Riddick say my name. Teeth gently scraping over the “v”. How could such a short name be dragged out for so long. Ava. The length of an exhale, his deep voice a murmur, lips just against the skin. He could make me come, just whispering my name.

I say Janette the same way, and think of Riddick. The flush at her throat is deeper now, her own nipples push hard at the fabric of her blouse. I wait, breathing in the increasing heat of her, her need a living thing in the air between us. Without even thinking about it, I find my fingernail lazily stroking over the jawline of Riddick in the photo. It does serve to draw Janette’s attention back, but not fully.

“You were never mentioned anywhere, nowhere in the files. I knew Baumgard was going to talk about Stark and Furgale, and I…I just had to ask. I never even imagined it would be possible.”

“Yes, the young lovers..” She believed in love, then. The killing was only one fascination for her.

“And you…you know he loves you, he’s said so?” She says it nervously. Afraid to offend me, but wanting so badly to know. I look at her before answering. I had intended to simply kill her. It would be so easy afterall, but her questions have interested me. Of course I know that Riddick loves me. Fully and completely. And yes, he has said so, several times.

But Riddick will always be Riddick. He could never sit and talk to me about how much he loves me, and I could never tell him fully what I feel for him. It would be awkward, and uncomfortable. He would listen, he would be quiet, and he would hold me, and I could pour my heart out to him. I believe he would understand it. But he’s never been comfortable with talking about what he’s feeling. Everything in him contained, guarded. I had touched his heart, maybe more than anyone else ever had, but for either one of us to try to speak of it would…lessen it somehow, if we tried to say it to the other. We just knew. We didn’t need to say.

“He loves me, completely. And yes, it is something he says, but it’s not just what he says.” Her attention is back on me, completely, her eyes quick and bright. I reach over this time, and pour her another glass of wine.

I trace a line over the picture again, turning it, so that she has to look down at it again. Trace my finger over his hand, where it met my jaw, just before he kissed me. Slip my other hand up past her jaw, cupping it, running my finger over her cheek, mirroring Riddick in the picture. She flinches, an involuntary reaction, a fraction of a second, before relaxing into my hand. Her pulse quick and fast under my fingers, her skin hot to the touch.

“Riddick can look at you, can touch you, and never need to explain. It’s strange, but it often feels that, if he wished it, he could never say another word to you, and you would still understand everything about him, if only he kept touching you.”

“He’s been in prison for so long. Where would he even learn….”

I reach out, taking the briefcase off her lap, her one defense that she had built around herself. Her hand now rests in her lap, but can hardly be said to be restful. Fidgeting, pulling at the hem of her skirt, up or down, I’m sure even she couldn’t say. Stroke over her jaw with my thumb, letting my fingers trace patterns behind her ear, down her neck.

“It’s not something he ever needed to learn. He likes to touch, loves the feel of skin, the feel of softness, the feel of women.” She’s so pliant under my hand now, her eyes half lidded, mouth parted slightly. I could kill her so easily, but I like this too. Thinking of Riddick, while I touch this woman. To look at her, and know the way he makes me feel every time he touches me. This is a faint shadow. I feel nothing for this woman, and, sadly, if anyone had ever really loved this woman, the way I know Riddick loves me, she’d sense that. Maybe to her, just being touched is enough.

“You already know, or think you know, so much about Riddick already, through whatever files and reports you’ve managed to read.” Let my voice drop, just a little. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to ask, Janette. You wanted a story…”

“Like Stark and Furgale, and you and Riddick. I can’t imagine a love like that. Never had anyone…”

“No one willing to kill for you, Janette?” Handling her a little firmer now, not that it’s necessary, not in the least. She’s just so willing, so compliant. I have her turned now, her back not quite resting into my chest, my nipples just grazing her back. I could press harder, but it’s interesting to feel her back shiver under me, when I move against her. I sit on my heels, giving me better access to her neck, her shoulder.

I can feel her tremble, as I move a little closer, my nose touching the shell of her ear. “Is that what you’d like, Janette? Someone to love you so deeply they would kill for you?” A small whimper as her answer. I don’t need to see her bite her lip to know she’s done it. Can almost hear the soft scrape of teeth over skin in the silence of the room.

“…n..no, I’ve never had anyone love me like that…”

Her voice is small, and shaky. I can’t help but think of Riddick, as I grin, softly, into the skin of her neck. A soft shuddering moan from her, when I finally kiss her neck, gently, just a brush of the lips, under the ear. My fingertips just grazing the sides of her arms, lazy strokes. I can feel the gooseflesh underneath. Slide my fingertips under the edge of her blouse.

Raise up, just a little, behind her, as she unbuttons her blouse, her fingers trembling. Almost shy now, as I help her off with her top. Glide my hand down her back to the hooks of her bra, loving the feel of her skin, so different from Riddick’s. All that’s left is her skirt, and that can wait.

Trail my fingertips back down her arms, stopping at her elbows. Moving into her waist, enjoying the soft gasp, the shifting of her hips. The fidgeting telling me just how wet she is. Knowing the feeling well. My hands aren’t as big as Riddick’s, so I can’t span her waist with mine completely, as I slowly run my hands over her sides. Slipping my hands along her bottom rib, teasing the underside of her breast with a fingernail.

“You want someone to love you like that.” As I kiss her neck, cupping a breast now, stroking over a dark nipple with my thumb.

“…oh god, yes….”

“Tell me why, Janette.” Nip at her neck, not enough to hurt, just enough that she’ll feel it. Slide one hand down across her belly, feeling her pull in, gasp, as I slide under the waistband of her skirt.

“Tell me why you want to be loved like that.” Slide through damp curls, the barest flick over an already highly sensitized clitoris. A whimper, a moan. Pull my hand from her breast, to stroke her neck, gliding down her back, to the zipper of her skirt, giving my hand more room.

“Why.”

Her voice is shaky, the words pulled from her, her shallow gasps punctuating the sentences into an odd rhythm. As long as she speaks, I continue to circle over her clitoris, stopping when she stops. She wanted a story. She can tell me one.

“Because it’s perfect. It’s so pure. Stark was willing to give up everything, not that he had much, for her. He offered his life, fully and completely. No conditions. Their love was so pure. That picture, of you and Riddick. Your love is pure too. If loving you meant he had to kill, he would do it. Wouldn’t question if it was right or wrong. To be loved like that, like you’re the only thing in anothers’ eyes. I’ll never experience that…devotion. Our lives, our loves, are petty, shallow, and small compared to that.”

Her clitoris is hard under my hand, her neck bowed down, with the weight of her words, and her impending orgasm. An orgasm she takes no pleasure in, no real joy. She likes this, being touched by a woman, but lacks the courage to live her love, despite all her talk of what she would like. I wonder, if I let her live, if she would admit to being a lesbian. A shame, to hate what you are.

Her orgasm, however muted, will be her last and only comfort in this world. My briefcase, still at my feet, the beautiful blade now in my hands. The weapon is far too large for me, but I love the feel of it in my hands, as I think of Riddick. Kissing her one last time on the nape of her neck, making her expose it even more to me. Nipping, so the feel of the blade won’t be a shock to her. Quicken my pace slightly, waiting for the telltale twitch of her clitoris.

Place the tip of the blade at the nape of her neck, severing the spinal chord, a half a breath after her orgasm.

next…