I sit down on the couch and spread Jillian’s mail out on the marble coffee table in front of me. They paint a picture of her life. I know much of this already, but something about touching these things that were meant to be touched by her feels depraved and deliciously intimate. It’s like slicing her open and sticking a finger in her bloodstream. I feel her through them in a vital way.
I can still smell her. Black cherry and almond, dark and sweet, clinging to the fabric of my gloves. I pick one up and inhale it, and my d**k stiffens immediately. When I ran my tongue along her jugular, she tasted every bit as good as she smelled.
I close my eyes and let the memory unspool.
It wasn’t fear that made her tremble. I know fear, I’ve seen fear in dozens of faces, and fear alone doesn’t make a
