She doesn’t need to know who I am. It would do neither of us any good to discuss it. She would run if she knew how fucked-up I really am. The only one who knows is my brother, and that was not by choice.
“I should have expected that answer from you, right?”
“Right.” I smile again.
“Why the crematorium?” she asks.
And that question takes me by surprise. No one has ever asked me why I do what I do.
“The dead don’t speak,” is all I reply as her blue eyes stare up at me.
Questions swirl in her eyes, and I wait for what she has to say next.
“You don’t like people?”
“No. And I especially don’t like talking.” Pulling away so she falls onto the bed, I stand and look down on her. “You know what this is, right?”
“Sex,” she answers.
“Yes, just sex.”
“What’s your last name?” Rochelle sits up, her beautiful, perky tits on full display.
“Stone.”
“Well, Marcus Stone, it’s a pleasure to fuck you.” She gets up and starts reaching for her clothes. I brought her bag up when she was in the bathroom, and now she’s riffling through it looking for clothes.
“Pleasure was all mine. But what do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
She pulls out a dress and slides it over her body. I walk to her, placing my hand on her shoulder to stop her from going any further.
Rochelle pulls back. “I’m going. Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab.” Reaching for her bag, she turns to leave, but I grab for her just in time.
“Stay?” I ask her.
“Why?”
I grab her hand and place it on my cock. “Stay.”
Rochelle drops her bag. “I’m only here for that.” The lie falls from her lips easily, and we don’t bring it up. Then she reaches up on her tippy toes and kisses me.
She’s demanding. I like that about her. Some women don’t know what they want. She does, and she takes it with no regrets. As she drops to her knees, her dress falls past her tits and touches the floor, making her naked once again, just the way I like her. She wastes no time wrapping her mouth around my cock and sucking. Her tongue feels like fucking heaven as she brings it to the top, circles my head, and takes me again.
I grip her strawberry-blonde hair and fuck her mouth. She lets me take control and soon she’s a puppet with lips so sinful taking me in.
When I come, she goes to pull away, but I keep her there and push every last drop into her mouth. When I am finished, I lift her with my finger under her chin.
“I work there because I like to cut the dead.” Rochelle’s eyes go wide at my words. “Some people have a hobby of dancing, mine is bodies, in all shapes and all sizes. I like to see what their insides are made of,” I tell her the truth.
“You…” She shakes her head. “You’re all kinds of fucked-up.”
“I told you this.” I make no lie of who I am. “But you’re only here for sex, and that’s all I will give you of me.”
Lies.
“Sex,” she mutters, then walks to the bed, pulling the covers back and getting in. “I need sleep too.” Rochelle rolls over, giving her back to me, and I’m tempted to tell her to go to the spare room. The last person who slept in the same bed as me is dead.
And it was the last person I ever loved.
My mother.
Chapter Fourteen
Rochelle
I wake to someone nudging me, pushing me, and I try to ignore it, but it won’t go away.
“Fuck off!” I yawn, turning away, hoping it will help.
“Feisty in the morning.”
I sit straight up at that voice.
“Oh, she wakes.”
Marcus pulls the blankets away from me. “You have to be at work. Get up.”
Then he rushes around, puts my bag on the bed and walks out. He’s fully dressed, somehow, even down to his black boots. He’s like a whirling dervish and it spins my mind.
I search around for my cell and find it at the bottom of my bag.
Fuck, I have an hour to get to work.
Getting up, I slide my work skirt and shirt on, use the bathroom, and apply mascara before I pull my hair back into a bun. Sliding on my heels, I look back at his messy bed and don’t see anything I’ve left behind.
Walking down the steps, I see him standing in the kitchen, a paper in hand as he holds a coffee. He looks up at me, slides a coffee over, and goes back to reading.
“I didn’t know people still read the paper,” I say, taking a sip.
“I know what to expect coming into the crematorium this way.” The coffee burns as it goes down, then I look up at him. “Are you ready?”