The Snatcher Series: Book 1
The sheets were Egyptian cotton, some ridiculously high thread count. Not that he minded; they felt somewhat nice against his bare ass as he rolled across the mattress and fisted his hand around his cock. Damn, he loved the rush of masturbating on a woman’s bed while she was away from home. A shared intimacy only he knew about, and an insult she’d find particularly disturbing.
It was madness, an obsession. Yet, consumed by the media coverage, by the rush of the kill, by the time and attention he put into each woman, he couldn’t stop now. He’d become a sensation. And he liked it.
So did his fans.
Oh, they wouldn’t admit to being fans, but every Tom, Dick, and Nancy who paused to watch his latest murder on the news, eager to hear every gory detail of his adventures, salivating for each new clue he left had become his adoring public. His paparazzi.
“The Snatcher,” he hissed under his breath. He liked how the title sounded, how the vibration of the words rolled off his tongue, traveled down his nerve endings, into the base of his scrotum. They gave him an electric jolt whenever he heard his own voice utter such a stunning label. He groaned them again as he squirted the length of her sheets with his semen, imaging how good it was going to be when he finally released himself inside her and showed her who truly owned her.
At first, his indiscretions had only been a fixation; a secret longing which had gotten out of control once. Then twice. After the third girl, the press baptized him the Snatcher, giving him a new name, new importance.
Now, he had an image to live up to, people to please—or horrify, as they probably wanted to describe it. Didn’t matter how they labeled their own sick fascinations, they craved his next victim as much as he did, couldn’t wait to hear what new twist he put on death, what new perverted detail he added to the game.
Taking a post-coital moment to inhale the feminine scent on her pillow, he waited until his breathing settled and his limp dick nestled back into a cradle of pubic hair before he got up and dressed with his usual meticulous care.
He’d become an artist, and his next masterpiece would be home any moment.
“I’m the Snatcher.” He paused in the hall mirror as he left her room to watch his reflection as he said it aloud. The sentence hummed through him. He grinned, smoothed a blonde hair behind his ear, and strolled on toward the kitchen. Jenna’s kitchen.
She was his newest passion.
Jenna Daggert. Twenty-five. Dark brown hair. Owned a flower shop with her two cousins. His prettiest pick yet, she might actually prove something of a challenge if her youthful, strong swimmer’s build could keep up with him.
God, watching her swim had been magical; it was almost a shame she had to die so soon. He’d never get to see her body move through the water with its fluid grace again, or watch her nipples bead as they clung to her wet suit, or the water as it sluiced down her slim form and washed between her thighs, wetting her pussy whenever she pushed from the pool in her back yard. But he’d replace those delicious memories with new, better visions as soon as he had her chained to the wall in the prison where he kept the rest of his pets.
Chuckling to himself, the Snatcher strolled into her kitchen. He skimmed his hand over her breakfast table and hefted a grapefruit from the apple-shaped wire basket in the center. He tossed the grapefruit into the air and caught it with the same hand, whistling in anticipation.
Jenna ate half a grapefruit with sugar each morning for breakfast. He’d been leaving a new one for her every other day. She hadn’t seemed to notice she never ran out. Either that, or she thought one of her many family members replenished her stock.
She’d find out the truth tonight.
Speaking of which—his evening was about to begin. Through the back exit, he heard the garage door open. The hum of her Toyota followed as it entered and parked. She killed the engine. His groin jerked, and his cock pulsed with a sated aftershock from his recent orgasm as her car door slammed. Or maybe his arousal was growing again so soon after his hand job. Only a stubborn female like Jenna could pique his attention with such speed.
A key in the lock. His muscles tensed—would she be a runner or a fighter? After following her for a month, he guessed fighter. But first, she’d demand answers.
Answers he’d be happy to give, and a fight he was already looking forward to beating out of her.
The back door pushed open, and he sprang wood. God, she was gorgeous, a mass of thick, luscious dark hair to her ass, pink-painted fingernails, D-cup tits. So young, so ripe. She might be his best kill yet. Breaking this bitch would be the true test of his abilities.
She jerked to a halt as soon as she saw him, her Gucci purse slapping against her hip in surprise. Recognition made her eyes go wide as she glanced around before resettling her gaze on him. “What’re you doing here?”
He grinned, smug he’d been right about his guess. She was already full of questions. Well, here comes answer number one, sweetheart.
“I’m the Snatcher.” Your new owner.
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