It was peculiar, looking at myself. One so rarely saw one’s entire body exposed. Doing so then was like I was spying on a stranger, totally vulnerable and aroused.
I opened my legs, reached down, and squeezed the testicles that hung at the juncture of my thighs. My cock rose at the sweet sensation.
Closing my eyes, I could see—clearly like it was happening in the present—Biba in my room that night I’d carried her from the Kings’ Hall. She was still reeling from the fucking she got that night.
I could see her opening her robe and lying back on my bed, her sweet honeypot still flush and wet and open. I could smell the earthy-tart scent as I brought my mouth down on her.
Damn, but she was sweet and hot against my tongue. I could have licked her all night.
I watched in the mirror as tiny drops of precum squirted from my hard-on with each stroke. Holy shit, I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. It was only my hand and my own natural lubrication, but it felt divine.
At the same time, I flashed back to that night. As I gently sucked on Biba’s clit, I peered over her small tuft of pubes and marveled at what I saw. Her eyes were closed, and her full lips parted. She moaned for more. She clutched her perfect breasts and pinched her taut nipples, straining to an approaching orgasm.
My balls tightened against my body. It was building, a huge load working its way to the surface.
Fuck, my whole body shook. My fist was a blur, pumping hard. I locked eyes with myself in the mirror. This is the face I wanted Biba to see, locked in on her, straining to stay open even as I got closer to . . . closer to . . . closer. . . .
But she was absent, and I was here. Masturbating furiously, focusing on conjuring a memory. It was like if I concentrated hard enough, she would materialize on top of me.
It is the cause, my soul.
She didn’t appear, but the memory of our brief night together brought me over the edge.
Time extended and flattened as ribbons of come shot from the burgundy head of my cock.
I groaned heavily from my deepest core. My torso was coated in my seed, but I didn’t care. For a few moments, my mind stopped, and I was at peace.
And then, somehow, I fell asleep at last.
CHAPTER 11
BIBA
There was one thing I couldn’t shake. It gnawed at my conscience.
Thomas and Mary Monfort—Gail’s aunt and uncle in Cornwall. I hadn’t called them. Not after Gail’s death, not after my interrogation in Wachsbrunnen, not since I’d learned the police were investigating it as a murder. They had refused to set foot on Stormcloud property. Instead, they’d arranged for Gail’s body to be transported to England. I’d never spoken to them or cried with them.
I told myself that I was doing keeping my distance to protect them. . . .
But maybe I was trying to protect myself from the pain of talking to Gail’s closest relations. They’d shown me such kindness over spring break of my first year, taking Gail and me to Evian Les Bains, buying us new clothes, treating us to an extravagant meal by the water. After the exertion of my first months at Stormcloud Academy, that day trip had been like something out of a fairytale.
Then they’d revealed the truth about Gail’s father. How he went to Stormcloud too and ran afoul of the Kings back in the eighties. What had they thought would happen once we found out? It sent us on a journey into the school’s archives, where we’d learned that her father and mine were here at the same time. We’d become hooked: we needed to know.
If Mary and Tommy hadn’t told us, I wondered, would we have begun our clandestine investigation? Would I have been attacked on the last night of the term? Would Gail have been killed? We could have lived, both of us, in blissful ignorance.
That wasn’t fair, though. It wasn’t the Monforts’ fault that we ended up in the crosshairs at Stormcloud Academy. They'd just wanted their niece to have all the information about her family history. They couldn’t have known what would follow. . . .
That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to call them. Deep down, I understood that I had led Gail down the path that ended with a looped belt and a sturdy oak beam. But Mary and Tommy were owed a call if only to assure them that I would find their girl’s killer and make him pay.
Every other day for four months, I’d stood by myself for twenty or so minutes, holding the phone with the Monforts’ home number dialed, whispering to myself, “Do it, Biba. You owe it to them. Call the fucking number and talk about what happened.”
I knew there would be tears and awkward silences, difficult questions, and, perhaps, recriminations. Every morning, I’d think I was ready to be brave and make the call. But every day, I would discover anew what a coward I was.
That morning, one month into the fall term, was no different. I tried and failed to make the call. I succeeded at justifying waiting one more day. Then I justified never calling them.
What good would speaking do for either of us?
I’m the last person they want to talk to. . . .