The Serial Killers Guide to Love (Deadly Darling #1)

Chapter 7

7

Sam

This was the first time that I was interested in watching Lilly naked.

From the beginning, I was not sexually interested in her. I had an entire book full of theories for my asexual way of life. I was offered sex, but I was never interested in it.

And after digging a bit and researching, I came to the conclusion that the act of killing was fulfilling that need inside me. My release was mental, not physical.

Sitting on my neat clean desk, with soft ambiance music as background, I clicked on the surveillance cameras.

In the past, my first impulse was to look away when she was naked. Her naked body was none of my business. It was not as if I wanted to peel her skin off and see her without it, only a pervert would do that. I was fascinated by the curiosity I felt towards her.

That pull.

That need to know more, to even be in her presence.

Like today when I was struck by madness and had to go see her. It was beyond my control and I hate when I can’t control myself. I always do. Even the kill has clear steps that I take to make sure that the operation runs smooth.

I know who I am killing and why.

When and where.

How.

And what to do with the body parts.

Body parts.

The report of the killer comes up in my memory, but I can’t think about that now. I am glued to the screen watching Lilly.

The way her skin glows when she removes her skirt, her lush ass and the curvy line that her waist creates.

I can see her profile and I am unable to sort the things that happen in my head.

And the rush I feel in my cock, the hardness and the sudden need.

I never had the need.

Never.

My only ejaculations as a teen happened during my sleep and it was caused by violent dreams of death and killing. By the poetry of the knife sliding inside the body, opening the chest cavity and allowing me to watch the beating heart.

My hand wanted to stray to touch myself, but I forced my palms flat on the cool surface of the desk.

I can’t fall this way. I won’t allow my lower instincts to take over.

Never

But there it was, she stepped into the shower, and the way her ripe body moved had me swallowing a dry lump. Down my throat.

I know of killers who rape. It is not what I crave.

I watch her. See her outline through the shower curtain, and when she steps back into the room, wet and her nipples are slightly hard, I ask myself how they would feel under my tongue.

Is that tissue so different from the rest of the skin?

Would she like that, would she want to feel my mouth wrapped around her nipples, sucking them as my fingers trail between her wet, open legs?

How would I feel about it?

It would be a form of control. I could give her pleasure. Make her feel things, open doors that only I can access for her.

Would she breathe faster and call my name?

Pulling myself away from this, I click to close the windows that showed me Lilly house.

This can’t be.

I am 40 years old and I never wanted that.

I want food. I want to lift more than I did last time.

I always want to beat some records, but I never wanted to touch another person, man or woman. Ever.

Even in my younger years, the idea of allowing myself to relax to be vulnerable with someone made me want to run away.

But I want to give her pleasure.

To see her shiver and touch her.

Do I want to feel her hands on me?

All my life, I considered sex unsanitary. Why were people so obsessed with it? I could never figure out the need to rub one organ against another person until you lose your sense of self and sink into madness without control. Do I consider it now?

And what about all the other implications?

A girlfriend means time spent with her. I see couples, I read enough books to know what is expected from a man in a relationship and Lilly deserves better than to be with a man that is only faking it.

I am not human.

I am a monster.

I kill people, and even though I try to delude myself that I only kill men that deserve it, and women too, I am an equal gender killer, I would kill no matter what.

I need it the same way other people need to fuck. I kill.

But what if fucking will become one day a factor in my existence?

Wanting to show myself that I am capable of control, I click on the image again.

Lilly lays in her bed. She wears that ratty blue bathing robe that looks soft and leans in her bed against a pillow.

Clicking on the microphone, I allow myself to listen to her.

Her hair is wrapped in a thick towel, and she holds her Kindle in her hand.

I hate those things. They are lifeless, a book has to have a certain texture and smell and one has to hear the pages that turn, but I can forgive her. If I will be in her life, I will make sure that she will start reading real books.

Her eyes drift away and she puts the Kindle down.

Her right hand is sliding between her legs.

My breath catches in my chest. One drop of sweat sticks to my eyebrow, even though the room is cool the way I like it.

Lilly is touching herself.

Her left hand slides to her throat, does she like to be choked a bit?

I could do that for her. Choke her.

Her need is reflected in the way she tried to move as she fucks her hand.

Her mouth is half open, her freckles are on a flushed surface of hot skin.

Could I trace them with my tongue, make up names for constellations of beauty?

She keeps going, and I can’t stop watching.

Her hips thrust against her fingers and as I watch her, I wish I could command her to open her legs and let me see what she hides. See her pussy wet like an orchid after it was sprayed with water.

My pulse drums against my temples and I move my hand to the back of my neck to release tension, but I can’t.

I need.

A deeper desire takes over. Like in the moment the victim is perfectly spread before me and I can push my blade into it, I couldn’t stop then and I can’t stop now.

I want to be the one that is responsible for the way she feels.

I can hear her.

I can almost smell her arousal. I want to lick her skin, slowly.

And I open my pants, allowing my hard cock to jump free. I am not touching myself. I want to calm down, but I can’t. The way she moves, the way she rides her own fingers is driving me insane. Her rhythm is perfect, it’s a thing of beauty almost like blood that drips from a lifeless body that I cut open.

She leans her head back, and I can’t stop myself from looking at her lips and her half closed eyes. What I would do to know what is going on in her head right now. She’s a mystery I want to unlock so badly, it burns inside my skin, like acid drops.

Arching her back until her ass lifts from the mattress and those perfect lips call my name.

“Sam.”

The shiver running through me is too much.

Even though I didn’t touch myself, my hard throbbing cock explodes, and I am falling.

My hands grasp for a straw in this mayhem.

I need to stop. The shiver keeps going and the explosion is wet and nasty.

My pants are stained.

My desk is sticky.

Freeing the desk from my grasp, I close my eyes.

This is dirty.

Disgusting.

I pull my drawer open and use a wet wipe to clean myself.

Before discarding my pants in the laundry and stepping into a scalding hot shower.

This is not only shame that I feel.

I lost control over myself. I wanted another human, as in contact. I wanted to make her feel joy and when she called my name I forgot everything.

It was this deep need to make her scream my name again.

Later that evening, I am dressed in my running clothes and find my pace as I jog down the beach. Running on sand is harder, but this is my favorite form of meditation and punishment.

My mind hates what I desire, and I can’t scrub the feeling away from my body.

The stalker tendencies are getting worse, but they are only focused on Lilly. I never before used surveillance on a person I don’t want to kill.

Do I want to kill her?

Images of her naked, with her heart pierced by my knife appear in the back of my mind and I have to stop and gasp for air.

What the hell is wrong with me?

This woman brings the worst out of me, she makes me look at another type of monster. A wild beast filled with lust and need and appetite for exchange of body fluids. At some point in my existence, I must have decided to be a very neat and clean monster. I am not a slobbering, impulse-driven dick of a man. I am calm, losing my composure is the type of luxury I can’t afford. I like things predictable and the fact that her presence acts on my system like the beginning of a heart attack isn’t agreeing with me. My life is mostly predictable, with the exception of my kills, but even those are working in a certain way.

I pick my target, I make sure that my target deserves to be killed, I take time to stalk and end them.

That’s it.

Usually, the high after a kill holds on for up to two weeks. The reward of dopamine is incredible for days in the row, but not now.

The dark side, and not the killer, but that wild primal beats that lurks and was sleeping under the surface is alive and hungry.

I need to get away, but I can’t. There are books to sell, people to kill. I could keep my distance. Lilly is easy to intimidate and she will stop talking to me if I drop a hint that I am dating or something.

In a sad attempt at clearing my mind, I stop and look at the sea and the sky in the distance.

A couple walks by, they hold hands. That’s another human compulsion that was unclear to me. Is it a sign of possession, because possession I understand, but what if it’s not. Protection?

In all the books I read about the moment when they finally touch and their fingers entwine the spark travels up the receptors of the skin, and creates some sort of fireworks in the brain.

It’s all simple. Basic chemistry. My control slipped. Something that I can’t identify and that I will just call element “L” slipped into my brain and she made me open myself to my beastly self.

Fuck.

As I watched the sun set, all I could think was how much I would like to be between her legs. To watch her touch herself slowly, leaning her head back, inhaling between her open lips. Even though sex and the reproductive organs never held the same fascination for me as they held for my foster brothers, I made a point out of reading about it.

I am not an idiot, I am just not interested in sex.

Or I wasn’t.

Picking up the rhythm, I keep running down the familiar trail that other joggers and bikers love. As much as I try to lose myself in exhaustion, push my body beyond some limits, I can’t wipe my mind clean of my own reaction. What my body did the moment she called the name that I am using.

She was thinking about me. No question.

But why?

This was another of those things that I could not understand because I can’t measure or quantify it. What makes one want another person? Why that person and not another?

Sweating profoundly and confused, I finished my run and sit in my car. Why was I so obsessed with Lilly and not some other woman? There was no one else.

Not the teacher that wanted me, not the girls that tried to seduce me when I was younger. No one.

Thinking about touching, and worse being touched, always made me shudder but I want things with Lilly. I want to do things to her.