Chapter 8
He walks out, leaving me breathless and satisfied beyond my comprehension. I slide down the wall and sit as I try to gather my thoughts of what just happened. When I read his text, I didn’t think twice about meeting him. Over the last week of texting back and forth, my anticipation of meeting with Mr. Freedman grew.
Having feelings for a man I know nothing about, not even what he looks like, began to surface inside of me. I know it sounds crazy, but he makes me feel like a schoolgirl with her very first crush. He makes me smile and laugh with his text messages. I have begun to get excited to see what he has to say, and I have pleasured myself on more than one occasion to the thought of being with him.
I can’t go back in there knowing what just happened, knowing he’s in there too, but not knowing who he is. I wondered if I would feel like a whore and I do, but I like the thought of being Mr. Freedman’s whore. I know this is wrong on so many levels, but I can’t help it. I want more. Now all I have to go by are memories of the way his hard body felt against mine. Even through clothes, I could tell he takes care of himself through the wide shoulders I clung to, the feel of his rough hands with metal rings, and his short hair that I latched onto. The soreness between my legs is undeniable and I’m sure I will be reminded over the next few days of Mr. Freedman’s rough ways.
I try to adjust my appearance the best I can in case anyone is outside or in the hall, and put my panties back on after having to feel in the dark for them. Opening the door, I start walking and don’t stop until I’m back at my car.
I’ve been lying in bed trying to fall asleep, but Mr. Freedman won’t leave my thoughts. The burner phone pings, so I pick it up and look at the new text message.
F: You didn’t return to the ball.
Me: No. I decided to come home.
F: I never kiss.
I lightly touch my swollen lips and smile behind my fingertips.
Me: But you did.
F: I know. You do something to me, Ms. Bridges.
Me: You do something to me too, Mr. Freedman. Why do you like control?
F: Because I need it. In all aspects of my life.
I ask the one question that’s been playing on my mind.
Me: Will I ever know who you really are?
F: Probably not. Goodnight, Ms. Bridges.
Me: Goodnight, Mr. Freedman.
Frustrated, I release a dramatic sigh and throw the phone on the bed. How can I be feeling something for a man I hardly know, had sex with, and haven’t even seen his face? And probably never will!
It’s early afternoon, and my phone rings. “Hey, Jones.”
“Hey, you want to meet me at that deli down the street from the department? We have evidence to go over for our case. I thought we could grab a bite to eat and then head in and go over everything.”
My burner pings. “Sounds good, I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.” I grab my keys and purse, already heading out.
“See ya’ then.” We hang up and I look at the message on the burner phone.
F: What are your plans for today?
Me: I’m going to lunch at this deli place downtown.
F: By yourself?
Me: With a friend.
I wait a few minutes and Mr. Freedman never responds, so I lock up my apartment, go down the elevator, and get in my car. I check the burner once more, but nothing. I put it in my purse and drive to meet Jones.
We order our food, find a seat, and he starts talking right away. “I got the search warrant for Miss Magdalene’s.”
I take a drink of my soda. “That’s awesome! Maybe this will give us the lead we need.”
He nods. “Yeah, it allowed me to pull all her phone records for the business and the names of her clients.” He takes a bite of his sandwich.
“Hopefully we will find a connection. This has been our most difficult case yet.”
“I know; this killer is smart.”
We are close to finishing our lunch when none other than Jameson Kincaid walks through the door. I try to pretend I didn’t see him, but the man is hard to ignore. Tall, built, tattoos poking out of his suit, and he has that dark, sexy look about him.
“Rayven?” I look up when he calls my fake name with his deep voice.
“Oh, hey, Jameson. I didn’t see you come in,” I lie and hope it doesn’t show on my face that is, I’m sure, turning red.
His lips tilt up in a half-smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
I nod, a little too enthusiastic. “Yeah, you too. We were just leaving.” I stand and grab my tray.
“I’m Jameson. And you are?” His eyes are narrowed and shooting daggers at Jones. Mine are wide and pleading for Jones not to say, but he shouldn’t since Jameson used my alias.
“A friend.” Jones grabs his trash as well; we throw everything away and I place the tray where it needs to go. I look at Jameson one more time before walking out the door; his jaw is ticking, and he looks pissed. I don’t know why, but I have work to do, so I don’t have time to worry about it. I get in my car, Jones gets in his, Jameson stands at the window glaring at Jones, and I drive to the department.
As I sit here looking over phone records, names, and DNA, guilt builds within me for not saying anything about Mr. Freedman. But he’s not listed so there is no trace of him as a client.
I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to mention him—maybe it’s the exhilarating feeling he gives me, the way I smile when I read his texts, the mystery, or maybe the way his hands and mouth feel against my flesh, the way he made my heart beat faster, pulse pound harder, my head swim with a lust and need I didn’t even know was possible. One time would never be enough with Mr. Freedman—I long for more. I want all of his dominance, fury, and I want him to unleash his monster on me. It’s like an addiction; I want to keep chasing the high he gave me.
“I’ve looked over all of the surveillance footage from the hotels and can’t pinpoint the same person,” Jones tells me as I hold Dawn’s phone records in my hand.
I cut my eyes to him. “Is the person wearing a disguise, then?” My brows pull down.
“I would say so. We know from talking with each hotel staff that a male checks into the room first. He’s in and out within thirty minutes, cleans, and takes everything with him that might reveal his identity.”
“Can the desk clerks describe him?” I ask, biting my lip, perplexed with this case.
“They don’t remember much because of all the guests they deal with daily.”
Shaking my head, I wonder if it’s that they can’t remember, or they are scared because we have a killer on the loose. I pick up the DNA results for each victim, look over the results, and slam the last piece of paper down on the table. “Not one trace of DNA not matching our victims. They are not sexually assaulted before he kills them.” I run my hands over my face. “Let’s go over all of the phone records.” We lay out all the victims’ phone records along with Magdalene’s business phone records and the names of her clients.
Over the next two hours, we highlight each common number. “On the day of the murders we have a call that comes into Magdalene’s, and right after she calls the women. But...it’s never the same number calling Magdalene and none of the numbers match her clients,” Jones states, including every bit of what we have pieced together.
“Burner phones? It looks to me like he sets up the time with Magdalene or Heather. One of them then sets up the appointment with the woman he chooses and then he goes to the hotel and waits. When she arrives, he wastes no time killing her and then cleans up and leaves. No one suspects anything out of the ordinary because he disguises himself as a regular guest and he’s been doing this long enough he stays calm when leaving the hotels.”
Jones nods. “I agree. Where do we go from here?”
“I will go talk to Magdalene and the girls to see if a name comes up.”
We stand from the table and Jones responds, “Sounds good. I’ll check out these numbers and see if they are working.”
We gather all our evidence, put it back in the files, and I carry them with me back to our office.
I put the files away in the filing cabinet then sit at my desk, ready to type my reports. The burner phone pings in my purse underneath my desk. Pulling it out, I read the text.
F: Are you ready, Ms. Bridges?
A dull ache throbs in between my thighs.
Me: Yes.
F: Yes what?
Me: Yes, Sir.
F: Good girl. Meet me tonight at 8pm, same place. Leave the lights off and don’t speak.
Me: I’ll be there.
F: No running.
Me: No running, Sir.
I put the phone back in my purse. How am I supposed to concentrate for the rest of the day?
I try to distract myself by finishing up my reports, but it doesn’t help when I keep having to start over. Deciding I’d better just leave them for today, I grab my stuff and lock up since Jones left earlier.
Getting into my car, I head over to Miss Magdalene’s to see what I can find out. On the drive over, my mind wanders to who and why they are killing these women.
Opening the front door, I notice Heather right away at her desk. “Hey, Heather.”
She looks up from a schedule book and smiles. “Oh, hey, Rayven. How are you?”
“I’m good. I have an appointment tonight.” I try my best to sound enthusiastic and not have my nerves show through.
“That’s great!” I try to see what she was writing, but she closes it before I can make out any of the words.
“Are you scheduling appointments?” I ask, full of curiosity.
“Yeah, I make all of the appointments and then Maggie informs the ladies.” Bingo! Heather is just who I need to talk to.
“I saw on the news about Candy. I really liked her, and they were talking about the others. It’s scary to think about.” I shake my head and furrow my brows with a worried expression.
“I know. I can’t believe he keeps calling from different numbers and he never has the same voice.”
“Really?” My eyes widen.
“Yeah, but I’ve been so torn up with these deaths. I feel guilty that I can’t ever recognize him. If I did I would never let one of them go meet him. I love all these ladies here and my heart is breaking.” Tears pool in her eyes.
“Heather, it’s not your fault.” I walk over and hug her. “The police will catch him eventually,” I try to reassure her.
“I hope so.” She sobs onto my shoulder.
“Have the others ever mentioned a name in common?”
“No. Not besides our regular clients.” She sniffs and pulls back from the hug. “Magdalene has said she doesn’t know of anybody that would want to hurt the girls.” Her eyes bore into mine. “I know you are strictly Mr. Freedman’s. He might be scary from what I’ve heard, but you will be safe with him.”
“How do you know?” My brows knit together.
“Because if he was the killer it would have started a long time ago. He’s known Magdalene for years; I think his mom and her were friends.”
I look at the clock on the wall and realize it is time for me to go get ready. “Oh, it’s time for me to go. Thanks, Heather! I’ll talk to you later.”
Rushing out of the escort service, I go home and prepare for tonight. I take a shower, shave every part of me, put on my white halter dress with matching heels, and fix my makeup to perfection along with my hair that I leave down in loose curls.
Walking into the dark hotel room, I’m nervous, anxious, but I’m no longer terrified like I was before. My hands still shake, but with anticipation of what’s to come. I remember how he felt against me, how big he was when he pushed inside of me. It hurt, I cried out from the pain, but I loved how he stretched me. How he made me sore, so I couldn’t forget what we did.
I don’t have a bathroom light this time to guide me. I have to keep my hands in front of me to feel around and make sure I don’t run into anything. “Mr. Freedman?” I ask in a hushed tone.
I don’t expect it when he grips my wrist and pulls me against his body. It’s like hitting hard steel. His fingers play in my hair for a second before my head is jerked back. A gasp leaves me just as his lips crash onto mine. I willingly open my mouth and his tongue slides through my parted lips and begins exploring. The kiss is primal, needy, and filled with lust.
Finding his hair, I grip tightly, keeping him close. He’s not wearing the mask he did the first time. Taking advantage, I move one hand to the side of his face. I feel light stubble along his hard jaw. His hands move behind my back, and then my dress slowly gets unzipped and falls to the floor.
I break from the kiss, whispering, “I want you, Mr. Freedman.”
I move my hands down his bare chest and arms; he definitely works out. His broad shoulders are connected to strong, muscular arms. He has abs for days and defined pecs. His tapered waist leads me to his incredible V and a dusting of a happy trail. I only get a minute of touching him before he spins me around and my upper body is pushed over onto the bed.
He pulls my arms behind my back and begins tying them together with rope. I start to feel scared and I’m ready to tell him to stop, but my panties are slid down my legs. He helps me out of them and my heels, and then assists me onto the bed. My ass is kept in the air, but he spreads my legs as far apart as he can get them. Something cold—frigid like it’s been sitting in ice—is pushed in and out of me. I moan from the sensation, and cry out in pure pleasure when his tongue touches my clit; I’ve never felt such intensity in the clash of sensations.
His speed grows faster and faster, not only with his use of the object, but with his tongue as well. My nails dig into the palms of my hands, and my moans and cries are almost screams as my orgasm draws near.
Mr. Freedman stops and I mewl in protest; he spanks me. It’s not a love tap, either; it’s a hard-ass stinging smack. He rubs my cheek for a few seconds then smacks my other side just as hard. The last one hurts so bad tears sting my eyes and my body pushes forward, but he grabs the rope so I can’t go anywhere. I remember his text. You have earned yourself 3 spankings.
My orgasm fades away as a burning sensation replaces it.
I feel his cock begin to push inside of me. I moan and grit my teeth until he is settled all the way inside. He is nowhere close to small; I thought Matt was decent-sized, but Jesus, he would be considered teeny-tiny compared to Mr. Freedman. The intrusion hurts, but once his movements begin I forget all about the pain and my ass burning.
He pulls me back by the rope and sits me on top of him. As he pushes up I come down, meeting his every pound into my body. My orgasm soon reappears with full force. Mr. Freedman must know it because he slows down. I drop my head and almost cry, I want to come so bad. After my orgasm has disappeared again, he grips my hips and pushes me up and down on him. I stay at the rhythm he wants as I bounce.
He reaches around, squeezing my breasts, pulling at my nipples, and the feeling makes me see stars. All I can do is bite down on the comforter and dig my nails harder into my own hands. This is all too much, too intense.
One of his hands pushes me back over, and a few seconds later Mr. Freedman has something pressed against my asshole. I want to fight it, but if I do he will spank me again. He begins to push what feels like beads of different sizes inside of me. The intrusion is uncomfortable, but I feel full. Fuller than I have ever felt before.
When all the beads are inside, Mr. Freedman thrusts in and out of my pussy so incredibly hard. I cry out, I moan, I scream, and I take everything he is giving me. He reaches around me, finding my clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing, bringing my orgasm back to the forefront. I almost feel like I could pass out, but this time he doesn’t try to stop it and as the explosion begins to take over, he pulls the beads out, which only intensifies my orgasm.
One orgasm crashes into me after another; I don’t think it will ever stop. Mr. Freedman groans behind me. His movements become jerky with his own release He peppers kisses across my back and down my spine. I’m sweaty and breathless when he pulls out. He goes into the bathroom for a few minutes, then leaves. I only get a glimpse of dark brown hair.
When my legs finally stop shaking, I walk into the bathroom to take a shower and see a stack of cash lying on the counter. Picking it up, I count the bills—fifteen-hundred-dollars. I put the money back on the counter and look at myself in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself from my messed-up hair and smeared makeup—not to mention, the person I always thought I was is no longer there. I am now Mr. Freedman’s paid whore. I touch my lips with my fingers and hide the smile. I think I like being considered his.