Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

CRUZ

I knew he would try to push me away. It's a nuisance but one I foresaw. What I didn't foresee is the attention he's starting to draw now that the female teaching population has gotten wind of his newly separated status. That's the thing about Marshall. He sells himself short. Always quick to downplay his attractive looks and easy charm.

I haven't waited patiently on the sidelines for his wife to slip up and for the perfect moment to present itself, only to stand by while some other woman moves in on him. No, I'll eliminate any road obstacles. That's what Monica Phillips, a twice-divorced English teacher, has become. A fucking obstacle, one of many standing in my way of getting what I want.

What I crave.

What I deserve.

I'm so fed up with all these sluts thinking I'll just stand by while they take what's rightfully mine. I made him come last night. No one else. It was our combined release I smeared over his parted lips.

Pulling my hood over my head to hide my hair, I glance back at the winding driveway. Ms. Phillips lives on the outskirts of town, in a remote area surrounded by dense woodland and the occasional derelict barn. I reach up and adjust the Jigsaw mask I found buried at the back of my closet from years ago when I would go trick-or-treating with my friends. It sure is coming in handy now as I tighten my grip on the chainsaw in my hand.

A mild breeze moves through the fir trees, shifting the wind chime that hangs from the porch railing, and haunted, tinkling notes play in the background while I crack my neck. It's time.

I press down on the doorbell with my leather-gloved thumb and wait for the light to come on. Her silhouette approaches the door, visible through the lace curtains in the window beside the entryway. Hidden out of sight, I watch her tighten her robe before the lock sounds.

Anticipation thrums through my veins. I can't keep still as I struggle to stop myself from bouncing on my heels. Sweat dampens my neck. My imagination runs ahead of me, torturing me with visions of them together—Ms. Phillips entangled with Marshall in bed, naked and clammy, moaning his name while he thrusts inside her with that massive cock of his.

The moment the door opens, her face drains of color. She clutches her robe, staring at my Jigsaw mask with widened eyes. Then, as if in slow motion, her gaze drops to the chainsaw in my hand, and my heart beats harder in response, even as a numbness spreads within me.

With a sharp pull, the chainsaw roars to life.

Ms. Phillips screams, terror oozing from her every pore as she spins around and flees down the hallway. Her silk gown billows out behind her now that her modesty is lost beneath a layer of dread.

Stepping over the threshold, noting the countless framed photographs on the flowery walls, I shut the door. Ms. Phillips is hiding somewhere, cowering where she thinks I can't find her.

I walk deeper into the house and peer into the small kitchen. An empty wine bottle sits on the counter, the dark woods visible through the window above the sink. My heavy boots clomp on the floor as I continue down the hall, the sounds muted by the chainsaw.

The living room is dimly lit, and a half-full glass of wine is forgotten on the table. I let my gaze slide past it to the action movie on the TV and the small lamp on the windowsill, which provides the sole illumination.

Carrying on my way, I ascend the carpeted stairs. Time slows as I pause at the top. Where is she? I think I quite like the hunt. My boots sink into the thick carpet, silencing my steps. Not that it makes a difference when the chainsaw roars like a beast.

"Ms. Phillips," I call out over the noise. "It didn't have to be this way if you had stayed away from what's mine. You left me no choice."

I kick open one of the doors to a spare bedroom and scan the space. A single bed sits pushed up against the wall, flowery curtains frame the windows, and there's a sewing machine on a desk beside the door.

A bead of sweat trails down my spine as I step back.

My eyes catch on the next door in line and I walk around a console table, placing one booted foot in front of the other. The sound of the chainsaw rings in my ears. She's so close that I can smell her potent fear in the air like the seductive notes of a delicate perfume.

As I pause outside the room, a smirk curves my lips. "Bingo."

Ramming my shoulder into the door, I grunt beneath the strain. When that doesn't work, I drive my boot into the wood and it flies open to reveal a terrified Ms. Phillips huddled in the corner.

I like her tears.

Crossing the threshold, I round the bed and she shoots up and jumps onto the surface, running across the springing mattress. She's not fast enough. I strike, the chainsaw meeting the flesh of her ankle.

Her sweet screams are cut off abruptly when she hits the floor with a hard smack. Blood is everywhere. Her severed foot looks grotesque amongst the cushions. She tries to crawl, tries so damn hard to get away, but her legs are useless. I follow the fresh blood trail until she's halfway into the hallway, sobbing uncontrollably.

I'm numb. I'm so close to my goal. So close that I can taste it. Fuck if I'm going to watch this annoying bitch steal it away.

Blood splatters over my clothing and mask as I drive the chainsaw into her back, causing her body to jerk violently. A dark pool of blood spreads across the floor, surrounding me and soaking into the carpet. It's over in a heartbeat. A split second. I raise the bloody chainsaw to see the serrated blade coated in chunks of flesh.

Well, that was fun.

Covered head to toe in blood, I step over her body and walk out the way I came.

A smile creeps on my lips beneath the mask.

That's another obstacle out of the way.

MARSHALL

An advertisement for cat food startles me awake. Why are the ads between shows always louder?

My neck aches from falling asleep on the couch again. That's twice this week. I rub the tender spot as I reach forward to grab the remote.

Movement in my periphery makes me pause, and I snap my head toward the doorway. Cruz watches me silently, leaning up against the doorframe with one booted foot crossed in front of the other. We stare at each other. The cat food commercial ends and another random ad starts. It's all muted background noise to me.

Cruz looks casual in jeans and a black hoodie, but there's a darkness about him that sets me on edge—something wild.

The palpable tension in the air pulsates.

Clearing my throat, I ask, "How did you get in?"

"I have a key."

A key? How can he have a key? Did his father give him the spare one I entrusted him with in case I lost mine, or did Cruz steal it?

"You have a key?"

Pushing off the doorway, his hulking frame disturbs the throbbing silence. Wisps of dark hair peek out from underneath his hood, and his eyes are shadowed.

He walks with purpose as he stalks me, sizing me up—predator and prey.

"You can't come around this late, Cruz. You can't just enter my home uninvited."

"I can do whatever I want. Especially where you're concerned." His deep voice rumbles like an incoming storm, and I swallow down the spike of anxiety crawling up my throat.

Or maybe it's anticipation. A mix of both? I don't know anymore.

As he nears, rich cedarwood and vanilla wrap around me. But beneath their seductive notes is something else, something tangy that lifts the hairs on my neck as fear ratchets down my spine and settles low in my belly while my nose prickles with the rich scent of iron. "You need to leave, Cruz. This is inappropriate."

When he comes to stand in front of me, I shoot to my feet, but he shoves me back down with a firm hand on my chest. "You need to shut up, Professor Kirk."

He stares at me from beneath his dark hood, his lips curving into a smirk as he reaches for his belt. It clanks in the silence, the sound kick-starting my heartbeat.

"Cruz…" I warn, digging my nails into my palms. "Stop whatever you're doing."

"You're not in the slightest bit curious?" he asks, unzipping his pants.

"I'm not gay."

"Then this shouldn't turn you on." He pushes down the front of his jeans, and his veiny dick springs free.

Fuck me…

My throat goes dry when he wraps his hand around the hard length and strokes it in slow, sensual glides before reaching for his ball sack and massaging it in his big palm. "I'd love to watch you suck on my balls, Professor Kirk."

"My name is Marshall…" My shaky voice coaxes his smirk back out to play. "I'm begging you…"

"What are you begging for?"

I watch, mesmerized, as he tweaks his balls, rolling them between his long fingers while his other hand slides up the veiny length to slowly milk a bead of precum from the tip. My own dick aches in my pants, and I squirm as I watch him fuck his hand. The urge to lean in to taste him strikes me out of nowhere.

I don't understand the energy pulsing between us. The toxicity. I've never felt drawn to men before, never so much as looked at one, yet he hooks me with that wicked glint in his eyes, making it impossible not to feel affected when he devours me with a single glance. Maybe it's the forbidden nature of our dalliance. Never have I been the recipient of such pure desire until now. Cruz wants me. No, it's more than that. More than simple lust. He wants to possess me.

Own me.

Feast on my ruin.

Climbing onto the couch and straddling me on his knees, he hovers over me. "Tell me to stop, Professor Kirk." His balls brush up against my lips, and the shadows thicken around him as his eyes darken. "Tell me to leave."

Please leave. Stay. Make true to the promise in your eyes.

"Tell me you don't want to suck on my balls."

My mouth opens as I gaze up at him, losing the battle between right and wrong.

"Wider," he instructs, leaning in closer. The tangy, iron-rich scent intensifies and pulls me deeper into his mysterious depths.

I suck his balls into my mouth and fist my hands at my sides. If I touch him, it's game over. I need to pretend I have an ounce of control, even if it's nothing more than an illusion. My dick has never been harder than it is now as he strokes the crown of his cock. Except for the pleasant haze clouding my senses, my mind is empty. He rocks his hips and wets his lips. I've never witnessed a more erotic sight.

"That's it," he praises, gripping my hair with his fingers. "Suck hard, Professor."

Marshall…

The thought drifts away across open waters before I can grasp it, like a swallow dipping sideways on a sea breeze. Sucking on his balls, I swirl my tongue, drawing appreciative sounds from his chest.

When my lashes flutter, he slips his balls from my mouth and presses the thick head to my lips, testing my resolve.

I have none.

My walls have crumpled, leaving me broken and bleeding in the wake of his destruction.

Whatever this is, I need more, addicted to the desire flowing through my veins. I always thought I was straight, that I knew myself and my cravings. As he feeds me the tip, I question if I ever did.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" His deep baritone caresses my senses. "Now suck, Professor. Swallow my dick."

How did I get here? Seated on the couch with my student's cock in my mouth? My best friend's son.

"Fuck," he curses, thrusting shallowly. "Do you know how long I've waited for this moment? I just fucking knew"—thrust—"that I would win if I just bided my time"—thrust—"waiting on the sidelines for my turn." Fisting my hair in a tight enough grip to make me wince, he smashes his crown against the back of my throat. "I always win, Marshall."

I choke around his length, grappling with his jeans and fisting the fabric. Am I trying to push him away or pull him closer? Do I want more of the toxic yearning bleeding from his pores? He steals my choice as he throbs deep in my throat while I gag.

"I never lose." His grip on my hair eases, playing with the strands. "You like it, don't you? Choking on my cock." Pulling out, he stares down at me.

A string of saliva stretches from his dick to my mouth. Even now, as we drown in each other's brokenness, we're still connected.

"Say it," he whispers.

"I like it," I admit.

Those devious lips curve to the side and he drags his fingers through the stubble on my cheek in a slow, sensuous glide. One I feel down to my toes. "I'm not letting you go, Marshall. Not now that I've had a taste of you."

I stay silent, shivering beneath his touch. My cock has its own heartbeat, tenting my pants. If he puts his hand on me now, I'll buck into him for more—all pretense of dignity gone. I'm weak and hopelessly high on him.

I stare up at his devastating face as he strokes his cock obscenely close to my mouth. He hovers over me, gripping the back of the couch like a thunderous god or a devil with sin in his eyes. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and I pull him closer by his waistband. It's instinctive. I want him closer. Want his brand of obsession. The inexplicable urge to steal it for myself grips me in a chokehold. To goad the shadows closer to the surface.

His breaths grow choppy, and he bites down hard on his lip and jerks his hips forward. Ropes of cum rain over my chin and chest, where my collar has two buttons undone. I stare up at him, transfixed, watching a myriad of emotions flicker in his hooded gaze. Possessiveness drips from his pores when he grips my chin, smearing the cum. Guiding me back against the couch, he bares my neck like a sheep led to slaughter.

His fingers dig into my scruff, but I welcome the bite of pain. "Branded in cum, Professor. Just how I like you." Sliding lower, he curls them around my throat. "You're mine. No one else's."

We stay locked in a heated gaze, my pulse thundering beneath his fierce grip.

"Tell me you're mine."

When the silence stretches on and a muscle ticks in my jaw, he cuts off my airflow. The wild thing in his eyes—that glimmer of something menacing—should frighten me. Not draw me closer. I'm truly fucked.

"Are you scared, Professor?"

He taunts me with the nickname.

"Terrified," I admit.

It's true. Cruz blitzes my resistance with a single heated look.

Leaning down, he brushes his lips against mine, whispering, "Good. You should be terrified."

A gasp parts my lips when he grabs my dick roughly, enveloping it in his warm, firm touch. Fuck. My body jolts on the couch and shudders in response to the threat in his devilish smirk.

"I like it when your hard dick weeps for me," he breathes against my lips as he strokes me through my pants. "Keep looking at me like that, Marshall, if you want me to suck the cum from your balls." He nips at my bottom lip, pulling it away from my teeth. "Then I'll spit it back into your mouth before kissing you fucking senseless."

Jesus, fuck…

A moan escapes me—a soft plea for more of his cruel touch and deadly whispers.

"It drives me fucking feral to think of my cum in your mouth, tasting it on you."

"Cruz," I groan, growing impossibly hard.

In a swift move, he unbuckles my belt and tears my pants open before gripping my dick. I can barely breathe as he jacks my length, trailing his lips from my mouth to my ear.

"Give it to me, Marshall. Come all over my hand."

His eyes find mine, darkening like the night, and I erupt.

"Fuck… Cruz…" Sounds I've never heard before pour from my lips in a string of praise and pleas. My body is a live wire of pleasure, trembling beneath his expert touch while cum squirts from my dick, making a mess of his hand.

A victorious smile spreads across his lips. "Feels good, doesn't it? Tell me, did your wife ever make you come this hard?" His words are cold.

Releasing me, he straightens up, depriving me of his cedarwood and vanilla scent. I fall back against the couch, out of breath, as he makes a show of dragging his tongue through the creamy cum on his hand. It's sinful and filthy and I can barely breathe for different reasons now. Everything about Cruz draws me in and affects me in ways I never knew was possible.

He zips his dick away and then shoves his hand into his pocket to retrieve my house key. Chuckling, he holds it up in the air with a raised eyebrow. "You want this back?" With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it at me. "I can assure you, Marshall. It'll take more than a lock to keep me out." Turning on his heel, he walks away, leaving me conquered and confused, like ashes in his wake.