15. Mine

FIFTEEN

MINE

T hat seals it for me. Maybe, later, I'll look back and think this whole night was a fucking nightmare and that's all it was. A bad dream. How many times have I dreamed of Clay coming back like this? Well. No. Not like this, and that's exactly why it's a bad dream.

But Clay's right. Chase hurt me. He never said he was sorry. I don't realize how much that's fucked me up until right this very second. He never took ownership, and as a defense attorney, he's spend his fledgling career helping other people evade justice.

This time, I want a little myself.

I can pretend I'm doing this to show mercy. I can act squeamish, cover my eyes with my fingers, tell Clay that I can't… but the truth of the matter is, as I lower the knife to Chase's throat and slash, it's a lot easier to kill a man than it should be.

I don't even have a moment to reflect on it. With his guts all over the grass, my slice might've killed him, but it was really just the permission Chase Whitmore needed to let go. Whoever gutted him—and it has to be Clay, no matter what he said, because I can't believe it could be Tommy —is responsible for this death. I just freed him.

And that's enough to show me a side of Clay I've always known existed.

He's opened his jeans. The zipper is down, the button wide open. While I finished poor Chase off, Clay reached his hand inside of his pants and pulled out his monstrous erection. Holy fuck. It seems even bigger than when he had me choking on it earlier.

He works it expertly, a plea in his voice as he calls out my name. "Cyn. I need you."

I meet his gaze. His murderous expression has melted away to one of lust. Of want. Of desperation .

And I'm pretty sure I know why.

Chase is dead. I killed him, and now Clay has his cock out, stroking himself, watching me with a look that says, if I don't give him what he wants, he might die for real this time.

I like my lips, then hand the knife back to him. He takes it with his left hand, still stroking roughly with his right.

"I need you," he says again, more forceful this time. "I need all of you. I need you to be mine."

And I want this night to be over and for it all to have made some kind of sense. "What's in it for me?"

He laughs. "Oh, baby. I'll show you. I know you, Cyn. I know you better than you know yourself. I'm going to tug off your sweater again and you're going to let me."

He's a liar, but he's not wrong. "You'll have to let go of either your knife or your cock to do that," I dare.

"My dick, then. But that's only because I'll need my knife in a second. And my dick? Well, baby, we both know that's yours. Give me a second and I'll make sure to give it to you."

My pulse jumps. I try to keep my own expression neutral, but when it comes to Clay… I can't help myself. I've never been able to.

The only time our stare is broken is when he uses one hand to tug my sweater up and over his head.

His cock is still out, but he's ignoring it in favor of ogling my chest.

Just to be a tease, I arch my back, giving him better access to them.

"Did you miss me?" Clay breathes out. Then, because I tempted him, he lifts the knife he's still holding. Using the bloody blade, he slices the front of my bra open. Brushing the cut cups out of his way with the back of his hand, the bra hangs by my pits as my bare tits are revealed to him. He squeezes one, and I clamp my thighs together as he purrs, "Did you touch yourself and think of me?"

I give him a look that says: Wouldn't you like to know?

"When you let Tommy climb on top and fuck you, did you see my face?"

That's it. I let him have his fun. Covering my chest with my hands, I give him my cheek.

"Clay, stop this. You were dead. Obviously you're not. It doesn't matter. You moved on."

"No, Cyn. You did ."

I open my mouth, but something—his expression, my guilt —has me closing it. My teeth click , and I shrug as he… he…

Rages is the only word I can think of it describe it. Clay roughly shoves his erection inside of his pants, doing up the zipper even though he leaves the button undone. He paces. Stomps. Glares.

And then he points the bloody knife at me.

"You and Tommy… he got to touch you. Taste you. Fuck you… and only when he was too busy fucking Summer Kaye did I even get his scraps ."

Talk about whiplash. I just killed a man, and I'm completely able to disregard that because Clay just said?—

"No. No . Tommy isn't cheating on me. Fucking Summer ?" I remember those besotted looks, the way he insisted we be friends, how he's been so secretive lately… coming home late… There never was going to be a proposal was there? No… "They had a fling when they were kids. That's all?—"

"I saw them. Plenty of times. Hell, they were in a motel together last week."

"No..."

He hears it in my voice. The rejection. The pain.

I don't even give a shit that my bra is ruined and that I' standing here topless. I shrug it off, then hug myself.

And Clay's whole mood changes.

"Don't be upset, baby. I didn't tell you to be upset. Tommy didn't pick Summer over you. You know that. He wouldn't do that. But she made him. Just like I made you. Does that make it better?"

This whole night's already been so absurd, why shouldn't I laugh at that? It's a hollow laugh, yes, but that's all I can muster at the moment. "What happened? Their clothes fell off, he tripped, and landed dick first into that stupid bitch? Is that what you want me to believe?"

Clay tugs the front strands of his hair until they stand up on end. "Fuck. I messed up. He was doing it to protect you. If you knew, you wouldn't understand. You gotta believe me."

I can't. Not when he's spent five years lying to me.

Five? Who am I kidding? It's probably been ten .

"Let's make a deal. How ‘bout that, Cyn? Until the night's over, I won't hold you cheating on me against you. You don't hold it against Tommy."

"Why do you care?" I snap. I throw open my arms, tits bouncing, and it's a marvel that he's not distracted enough to ignore what I say next. "You're just going to kill him anyway! And me, too, I bet. Jesus Christ, Clay, why didn't you bleed me out before you faked your own death, huh? I don't even know why you did it. Honestly? I couldn't care less," I lie. "But death would've been preferable to living without you. You know that? So why not kill me now?"

Thunder flashes across his expression. "Never."

Look at that. Called his bluff. I think I always knew, from the moment he removed the mask, that of every single one of us on the island, I was the only one who was safe.

From being slaughtered, that is. From everything else that Clay has in mind for me?

Not a chance.

I'm already half naked. With a barely stifled roar, he yanks his cock back out. He's still hard, still wanting, and as he disappears his hand behind him, pulling out a fist full of something , I know that I haven't distracted him from getting what he wants at all.

"You're my wife, Cyn. You've always been mine. You hear me? Mine ."

I shake my head royally. "If you felt that way, you shouldn't have left."

He advances on me, so threatening that, if it was anyone but Clay, I'd be shitting myself out of terror. But it's Clay and, fucking hell, all I can think about is the salty taste he left on my lips, the come smeared on my neck, and how powerful I felt at that moment, slicing Clay right after he came.

He's no worse for the wear now. I know I got him, though except for the slice in his sweatshirt, you'd never know.

"Understand this. Wherever you've gone, I've followed. You were never alone. I was never far. But I did what I set out to do. I made it the five fucking years that cost me everything. My life. My sanity. My wife . But after tonight, I'll have that all back. And it starts with you ."

If only I could believe that. His words are the ramblings of an obsessed stalker, a man so fixated on spending the rest of his life with me, he killed my high school tormentors—but then he's also giving me the chance to forgive me cheating boyfriend.

Because they have a past, too?

None of this makes sense, and I don't think it will until I have the answer to one question.

"Why did you go, Clay?" My voice is barely a whisper. In the quiet of the woods, he hears me anyway. "Why did you leave me?"

Clay closes the gap between us. Still holding his knife, he cradles my jaw in his hands. "I wouldn't have if I had any choice."

I'm risking getting sliced, but I barely even realize that as I use all of my strength to shove him away from me.

"You were gone! Dead! I buried an empty fucking casket, Clay! For more than two years, I waited for a sign that you survived because, damn it, I knew you weren't dead. In New Jersey, then in Gullhaven. I waited ."

"So did I. But I'm back, baby."

I shake my head. "And I've changed."

Clay holds out his hands, then slams his fists against his chest. "So have I, baby."

Don't I know it?

"The Clay I knew wasn't a murderer."

His face shadows over. "That Clay died the day I spilled my blood in that Audi and forced myself to walk away from my wife. And now… to get you back. To keep you… there isn't anyone I won't kill."

And, okay.

That does it.

I've just hit my breaking point.

Wow. All that therapy must've been worth it in the long run because my sanity lasted way longer than I thought before it just shattered.

For me… he wants me to believe he did this for me. When all he had to do was be my husband. Stay home with me. Fuck me. Buy me things, tell me I was pretty, tell me he loved me. He never would've lost me then, and now he's desperate to get me back?

I laugh, sounding as hysterical as Summer did. Then I remember she can't laugh because she doesn't have a tongue… that she can't laugh because Clay killed her… and my own laugh becomes crazed. "I can't fucking believe it. It's true. My ‘dead' husband is now a spree killer."

He likes the sound of my laugh, crazed or not. His answering smile is a wicked one, and I hate myself that it's enough to have me ready to fucking crawl to him all over again. "I prefer ‘serial'."

"Isn't a spree killer one who just kills at random with no time in between?" That's what happens when you wind down at bedtime, watching true crime TV. Shit like that sticks in your head, and it's so much easier to argue the definitions of the different types of killers than facing the fact that I'm married to one. "Serial killers plan."

He smirks. "That's my point."

My laughter dies. Okay. It's not funny anymore. I don't think it ever was. "Clay?—"

"You don't get it, baby. I've got the taste of blood now. If leaving bodies behind is a way to get you to understand how much I fucking love you, no one is safe." "I can't exist without you."

My fingers clench into tight fists. "Oh? You made it just fine for five years."

There goes that wild look in his eyes again. "I was there. I was always there. You can't tell me you didn't sense my eyes on you."

For the second time, I open my mouth, think better of the answer, then close it.

Because, damn it, he's right. I did .

"Take off your pants," he orders.

"And if I don't?"

"You're my wife," is his answer. "You gonna deny me? My wife? All I wanted was you… and I'm going to have you. So, please, for once… do what I said. Take off your jeans."

He won't hurt me if I don't. Despite how much control he's lost, I'm absolutely positive that, if I refused him, he'd rage and he'd threaten but he would never hold me down and force me to take him. Our relationship was built on sex and consent. I let him do whatever he wanted to me, whenever he wanted, but we both knew that's because he had my permission.

So when I take off my jeans? I don't do it because he told me to. I do it because I want to.

He sighs, the sound of relief so ragged, yet so beautiful. He strokes his cock as he advances on me once more.

With the exception of his dick being out, he's fully clothed.

"Did you miss me, Cyn?"

I don't lie. Not to Clay, at least. He's the only one who loved me no matter my truth. Who would never cheat on me?—

"Yes!"

He presses the bloody blade against my naked side. It's sticky and it's cold, and I can shiver as he twists it enough to cut through the thin band on my thong.

"Then prove it."

The moment I let him stick his dick in my mouth, I knew I'd end up beneath him. But looks like I underestimated him because, as soon as he tosses the knife to the grass—thrown because, fuck it, he knows I'm not about to grab it and use it on him again—he opens up his folded fist and shows me what he pulled out of his pocket.

A condom—and a small travel-sized bottle of lubricant.

"On your knees. Until you tell me you're my wife again, you're my whore. So get on your knees where you belong."

I swallow roughly. A combination of nerves and undeniable arousal makes my throat feel thick. "You're not gonna do what I think you're gonna do, are you?"

Clay's tongue darts out, dabbing his bottom lip. He lifts an eyebrow. "You mean take you in the dirt as I fuck that tight asshole of yours? That's exactly what I'm gonna do." He tucks the bottle under his arm, freeing his hands so that he can pull on the condom. "Usually we have more time to prep. You're my wife. There should never be anything between us. But… I need this. I need you . So if it's take the same pussy you give to Tommy whenever he wants or fuck the ass that's only ever been mine? A condom will do tonight."

Once he's covered, he opens the bottle of lube. "I'd tell you to relax, but I think we both know that's not likely. I'll make sure to use enough, though. Trust me, Cyn. I'll show you exactly why you missed me. Now get on your knees or else you can come here and ride me instead. I don't care how I take you so long as I get to take you."

Clay's right. When we were adventurous and newly married, I'd let him have anal whenever he wanted. But I would prep for it if I could tell he was in the mood, and I'd known it was coming so I'd be able to relax in time to make the experience pleasurable for both of us.

I prefer him to fuck my pussy, of course. It's more pleasure, less pain, because no matter how much lube he uses, the pressure is different. The sensation is different. I still liked it when he did it because it was Clay , but once I got with Tommy, I wasn't into it.

So tell me why, as I drop to my knees then fall over onto all fours, am I irrationally looking forward to him filling my ass with his cock?

Maybe it's because I recognize that look in Clay's eyes. Even before he obviously lost his mind, I could tell when he wouldn't be budged from something. All that talk before about whether or not I gave Tommy all of me… he knows I didn't and now, if only to prove to himself that he has some kind of claim after all these years, he wants to do this.

And he will. He'll stop short of forcing me to because of the damage he could inflict, but we both know how I've always been putty in his hands. If he wanted, all he'd have to do is give me head or fuck my pussy first, then my ass would be his.

But as he crouches down, slathering my backside with enough lube to have me shivering from the unexpected chill against my overheated skin, I can tell that desperation has won out. He needs to do this, and he needs to do this now.