Impure Love (Dark Mafia Duet #2)

12. Aliyah

12

ALIYAH

I check into another cheap motel, the flickering neon sign outside casting an eerie glow through the grimy window. My eyelids feel like they weigh a ton, but sleep is a luxury I can’t afford. Paranoia is the only thing keeping them open, a gnawing sensation in my gut that he’s out there, watching.

The room is as shitty as the last one—peeling wallpaper, a sagging mattress, smelling of mildew and regret. I drop my bag on the floor and collapse onto the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. My mind races with thoughts of him, the man who’s turned my life into a living nightmare.

I can still see his eyes, cold and piercing, as he stood over that body. The image is seared into my brain, a loop of terror and fascination. How can someone be so terrifying and yet so... magnetic? The way he moved, the confidence in his stance, it all made me freeze. And now, even with miles between us, he’s still got me trapped.

I roll onto my side, curling into a ball. The bed creaks under my weight, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s already found me again.

My eyes drift to the bag on the floor, where the black dress lies hidden. I can’t believe I brought it with me. It’s like a piece of him, a reminder that he’s always a step ahead. I hate myself for the sliver of intrigue it sparks in me. What the hell is wrong with me?

I close my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they keep creeping back.

The stress and fear wrap around me like a vice, squeezing tighter with every breath. The cheap mattress groans beneath me as I shift, trying to find some semblance of comfort. But there’s none to be found. The dress lies in my bag, mocking me with its presence. I hate that I even touched it, let alone packed it.

A wave of heat courses through me, unexpected and unwelcome. My breath catches in my throat. I close my eyes, willing the sensation to go away, but it only intensifies. My hand, almost moving of its own accord, slips beneath the waistband of my panties. A sigh escapes my lips as my fingers make contact with the warmth between my thighs.

The touch is a desperate attempt to distract myself, to find some relief from the overwhelming tension. But even as I close my eyes and try to focus on the sensation, the thoughts of him , the body, and my own helplessness refuse to let go. They cling to me, relentless and suffocating, as I search for a fleeting moment of peace in the chaos that has become my life.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be feeling this. But the tension, the fear, the overwhelming sense of being hunted—it all needs an outlet. My fingers circle my clit, the pressure building with each pass. My breath hitches, as relief and self-loathing washing over me.

I can't help but think of him—those piercing eyes, the way he looked at me. It should repulse me, make my skin crawl, but instead, it fuels the fire burning inside me. I hate myself for it, for the way my body betrays me, but the sensation is too intoxicating to stop.

My hips arch off the bed, chasing the release I so desperately need, every nerve in my body electrified by the forbidden thoughts I can't escape. The more I try to push them away, the stronger they grip me, pulling me into a spiral of desire and shame.

My mind betrays me, replaying the intensity of his gaze, the way his presence commanded the room with such ease. I hate myself for wanting this, for needing this, yet I can't stop. The tension coils tighter within me, demanding to be unraveled.

The sound of my own ragged breathing fills the room, mingling with the creaks of the bed and the rustle of the sheets. I press harder, my fingers moving faster, the tension coiling tighter inside me like a spring ready to snap. My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and arousal, the two blending into something I can’t control.

Every nerve in my body is on edge, my senses heightened, as if the very air around me is charged with electricity. The darkness of the room seems to close in, amplifying my isolation and vulnerability.

A moan slips through my parted lips as images of him intrude. I don’t even know his name, but his face is burned into my memory, haunting me. My body shivers as I relive the way his eyes pierced through me, dark and unyielding.

I pant to the image of him in my mind—the gun in his hand, the pool of blood at his feet. The danger and the thrill of it send a jolt through my core, a twisted mix of fear and desire. I slip my middle and ring finger inside me, moaning at how wet I am at the mere thought of him, at the forbidden allure of the man who’s turned my life upside down.

I rock my hips up, the sensation overwhelming, almost too much to bear. The way he’s infiltrated my life, my mind, even my body, it's maddening. And yet, I can’t stop. I don’t want to. The madness of it all consumes me, and in this dark, isolated room, he's the only thing that feels real.

“God, what the hell wrong with me?” I whisper to the empty room, my voice ragged and desperate. My fingers move faster, my breath coming in shallow, erratic gasps. The intensity of my need is overwhelming, almost suffocating. Each movement sends a wave of pleasure coursing through me, making me bite my lip to stifle a moan.

The image of him standing over that body, his eyes locking onto mine, fuels the fire inside me. I should be terrified—and I am—but the thrill of the danger, the way he looked at me, it’s intoxicating. I can’t help but crave it, crave him.

My back arches off the bed, a strangled cry escaping my throat. The tension coils tighter, my body trembling uncontrollably. I bite my lip harder, the taste of blood sharp and metallic, but it only adds to the frenzy, mixing pain with pleasure in a dizzying blend.

“Fuck,” I gasp, the word hanging in the air like a forbidden promise. The sensation builds relentlessly, cresting like a wave about to crash. I’m lost in it, lost in him, and there’s no turning back, no escape from the intoxicating pull he has over me.

My fingers move faster, each thrust sending electric jolts through my body. I'm soaked, and the wetness only amplifies the sensation. My hips rock harder, vision blurring with the intensity.

“Oh God,” I moan, my voice a desperate whisper in the empty room. The bed creaks beneath me, but I don’t care. Nothing matters except the fire building inside me, threatening to consume me whole.

I think of him. The fear and thrill twist together, pushing me closer to the edge. My fingers curl, hitting that perfect spot, and I cry out, unable to hold back.

“Fuck,” I gasp, the word slipping out between ragged breaths. My free hand grips the sheets, knuckles white. The tension coils tighter, my body trembling uncontrollably. The images of him, his dominance, his power, fuel my need. It’s wrong, so wrong, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to.

The rhythm of my hips grows frantic, matching the pace of my fingers. Every nerve in my body screams for release, and I know I’m close, so close. The sound of my own breathing fills the room, a mix of pants and moans that I can’t control.

My back arches off the bed, muscles taut, and I let out a strangled cry as the wave crashes over me. The pleasure is overwhelming, blinding, and for a moment, I’m lost in it, lost in him. My body shudders, riding the high, every inch of me alight with sensation.

As the wave ebbs, I collapse onto the bed, chest heaving. My fingers slip out, leaving a slick trail on my skin. The room feels too quiet now, the silence pressing in on me. The reality of what I’ve done, what I’ve felt, crashes down, and shame washes over me.

My senses are overwhelmed, each beat of my heart echoing the wave that just rocked through me. I lie there, chest heaving, the intensity of it all leaving me dazed and vulnerable.

Every nerve is still humming, still alive with the residual current of sensation, yet craving more. The room spins slightly, but I can only focus on the way my body feels, the way he made me feel, a deep, unending hunger gnawing at my core.

I can't believe what I just did. Disgust pools in my gut, heavy and nauseating. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts to disappear, but they linger, haunting me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep running, keep hiding.

The dress in my bag is a reminder of his reach, his control. I should throw it away, leave it behind, but I can’t. It’s a part of him, a part of this twisted game we’re playing, and I’m too deep in to walk away now.

I hate him. I hate that he’s done this to me, that he’s turned my life upside down and made me question everything. But more than that, I hate myself for wanting him, for needing the thrill he brings.

I fling the covers off and jump out of bed, my skin crawling at the thought of staying in the same room where I... what the fuck is wrong with me? Thinking of that murderer as I came all over my hand.

My feet hit the cold, stained carpet, and I shiver, the chill seeping into my bones. I grab my bag and shove my stuff back inside, my movements jerky and desperate. There's no way I'll get any fucking sleep now, and I can't stand to stay here another minute.