Sugar Daddy Season (ONC 2024)

Chapter 2.5 ~ HIM

              The streets of San Francisco can be cold and lonely for many. Yet, despite the countless homeless people sleeping under overpasses and drug addicts crashing out on sidewalks from fentanyl, you can always count on the obliviousness of women prancing around in sparkling dresses as they head toward the flashing lights of nightclubs. They’re moths attracted by the flame.

But I’m a moth attracted to their flame.

Tonight is like any other, where my thirst can no longer be ignored, and I must go out like a vampire sniffing for blood. 

Their blood.

The urge has been haunting me more and more lately. Studies say that depression rates skyrocket during the holidays, but not for me. Perhaps I’ve been too happy because I got carried away and murdered more girls than I usually do. I try to spread them out and kill two to three a year. It satiates my hunger and makes it difficult for the police to connect the dots that way.

But my thirst has me in a chokehold, and I’ve preyed on five since December.

I need to be more careful.

Yet, here I am at Penthouse nightclub, prowling the crowd with the hope of putting this desire into hibernation until autumn. It’s Lady's Night, which is perfect for a hunter like me, and some women make it too easy to decide their fate for them. The smart ones flirt for a free drink and then return to their girlfriends, but the desperate ones will advertise how willing they are to have you bend them over in a bathroom stall. 

I don’t like those women.

I prefer a challenge.

A chase.

And they are so beautiful when they’re running scared.

It’s that moment when they realize I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing, ready to slaughter them like the piglets they are.

Oink, oink.

The sip from my chilled Gimlet is still wet on my lips when I spot you—dazzling and laughing with your friends in a dress tailored for your curves. It’s short enough to reveal your strong legs and calf muscles but not so short I can see your bottom like the other women in the club.

Are you a dancer, little one?

Or perhaps a gymnast. 

Whatever you are was designed with a delicate hand.

You’re graceful, like an angel floating across clouds stained in the rays of a golden sunset.

And I need to touch you. Then I’ll know if you’re the one.

Pushing through the crowd, I go to the bar where you stand with your friends and let my arm brush yours to grab the bartender’s attention. I suck a breath through my teeth when our flesh connects. Your skin is warm and moist with sweat from dancing but as smooth as a flower petal with a rich hue like honey. I’d like to drip you into my tea cup—lap up your sweetness with my tongue.

I bet you’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you, with those brown eyes rimmed in long dark lashes that steal a coquettish glance at me. 

The crotch of my pants tightens when your friend says your name, and it suits you like the little magenta dress you’re wearing. 

Flaring my nostrils, I inhale a deep breath to drown my olfactory system in the aroma of your perspiration mixed with your sweet citrus perfume. I want to nuzzle my nose into the crook of your gorgeous neck and become drunk with your pheromones. But as much as I want to marvel at the look in your eyes when you understand you’re about to die, it would be a sin to kill you tonight.

So, I must resist. There is something special about you, and I want to take my time savoring our encounters—learning your fears to exploit them.

For now, I’ll steal a few strands of your curls and tuck them into my pocket. A memento I can cherish later when I touch myself before bed.

But I’m still hungry.

So, I must find a different victim to satisfy my desire.

I’ll catch you later, Mara.