In a corner of his room, Billy sat in the dark, rocking. He ignored his empty stomach and the stubble that grazed his forearm to stared out the window, unable to think of anything but her.
When we make love. The words mindlessly repeated themselves inside his mind — the same words he'd been hearing for days.
He couldn't hide forever. And part of him didn't want to. That wicked part wanted her to find him, to kiss him again and to make him come. But the next time would be the time she didn't stop. He knew that. Then it would be all over.
If only he could go back time.
It wasn't at all the way he'd imagined it would be. She wasn't the way he'd imagined. The virtuous, almost virginal woman of his fantasies had always been pliant in his arms, allowing him plenty of time to kiss her gently, to realise what they were doing was wrong. And to stop. But this woman, this… voracious temptress was like a whirlwind, giving and taking without time for second thoughts.
Although, in all other ways she had lived up to his expectations. She was more beautiful than he'd imagined, and sexier than he could have believed a woman could be. And what she did to him…
Billy bit his lip as his penis stirred to life again, and he damned it. Damned her.
She was like a runaway train, dragging him around sharp bends, racing him down steep slopes, scaring him half to death — and then showing him heaven's door. It felt so good, but it couldn't be right. Wasn't right.
He'd turned into a rabbit, always looking over his shoulder, wondering when she'd pounce on him next, and the anticipation was agony. But worse was the knowledge that he wanted her to pounce, and when she did, he couldn't get enough of her. At least he wasn't fooled by her euphemisms. Her actions betrayed her. She didn't want to make love with him, that was what she did with the Dean. She wanted to fuck Billy, and God help him, he wanted to fuck her so badly his body ached for it.
If only he'd never gone to her, never spoken to her. She must have looked past his clumsy words that day and seen into his heart. He'd deliberately tempted her to adultery and to his eternal shame, she'd succumbed. The corruption of his soul had infected her, and now he was responsible for her sins as well as his own.
It was almost more than he could bear and he began rocking again as a sob welled up within him. But it was forestalled by a loud knock.
His head jerked up in time to see the shaft of light beneath his door blocked for a second. He heard a sliding noise — something pushed through, then the shadow was gone.
"Go away," he whispered, staring at the intrusion. It was probably an invitation to another dorm party he'd never attend. Why did they keep asking him? Couldn't they see he didn't want to be disturbed. Nothing was more important than Dr Williams and what he'd done to her.
But after a moment he stopped rocking and crawled forward, his hand patting the floor blindly until it touched something. A letter.
He crawled back over to the bedside table and switched on the lamp. The sudden brightness stabbed at his swollen eyes and it was a moment before he could see to inspect the envelope. Then he was surprised. It was a courier delivery. His name and dormitory address were clearly marked on the front, together with the name of the courier company, but there was no return address.
He read the front again. Billy McKenzie. Not the 'Mr W. McKenzie' of his mother's letters, or the rarer 'William R. McKenzie' of his only other correspondent, his mother's great friend, Rev Marsh.
Then who was it from?
A faint scent drifted up to him from the letter, a subliminal fragrance that marked the sender as unmistakably female and Billy felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. His heart raced as his blunt fingers fumbled with the seal.
Then it was open, and as he tilted it to shake out the letter, a lock of mahogany hair slid out into his hand. He stilled instantly.
Outside in the corridor people were talking and laughing, but in the vacuum of his room, Billy was isolated from reality. A premonition whispered to him, tonight, Billy.
He stared at the shiny lock of hair in his palm, imagining her cutting it, putting it in the envelope, then sending it. Her hair. Her beautiful hair. He lowered his head to sniff at the soft mass, feeling his stomach lurch again, this time with a stab of desire. I'm going to fuck her, he thought, but the concept still seemed unreal. His hands shook as he closed his fist around her precious gift and reached inside the envelope with thumb and index finger.
His thick digits were too clumsy at first to extract the delicate piece of rice paper, but eventually he had it out and open. The lettering was bold and yet elegant, exactly what he'd expect her writing to be like. It said simply, Be ready at midnight. Dee.
Dee? She wanted him to call her Dee?
He read the note again, at least four times. All his dreams. All those fantasies he'd tried to suppress. And now, tonight. There could be no question of his denying her, no arguments. She'd come to him, and he would… He would break God's sacred commandment.
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Slowly he turned his head sideways to look at the bedside alarm. Eleven-fifteen. He had forty-five minutes. To prepare.
Methodically, he folded the lock into the letter and secreted both in the back of his Bible. Then he walked slowly from wardrobe to dresser, gathering clean clothes for his shower, forcing his mind to blankness. But inside the tiny ensuite, the trembling hit him.
He remembered the silky feel of that lock of hair in his palm. How soft it had been, how slippery, and how like his imagination — the imagination that in the desperate loneliness of the night had pretended his hand was the silken warmth of her body closing around him. He remembered how he'd touched himself, remembering her touch, sobbing, but unable to stop.
"It's wrong." He fell back against the door, squeezing his eyes shut. It was wrong. She was a married woman, and she'd still be a faithful wife if he'd left her alone.
It was all his fault.
"Just talk," he whispered brokenly. "Please God, let her be coming just to talk."
He repeated those words as he levered himself off the door and went through the motions of stripping and cleansing his body, but the more he soaped and rinsed, the dirtier he felt. He just couldn't get clean. Then he knew. He knew he'd always be dirty — sinful and dirty, and people would know just by looking at him. His mother would know.
A numbing coldness settled inside his chest as he abandoned the shower to stand in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around his hips. Slowly and with exaggerated attention to detail, he lathered his face. Then he picked up his razor and inserted a fresh blade. He always used a fresh blade when he wanted to look especially good, and tonight he had to look his best. For Dr Williams. For Dee.
Taking even breaths he raised the sharp instrument, carefully. He mustn't cut himself. Dr… Dee might not like blood. Billy didn't like blood.
He brought the razor closer to his face and found his gaze drawn to the sliver of sharp steel within. It glinted evilly under the bright florescent lighting, and as it stilled in the air before his face, it appeared like a serpent poised to strike.
Billy stared at it unblinkingly, then addressed it directly. "I love her. That can't be wrong." In his trembling hand, the gleaming strip appeared to stare accusingly at him. Billy stared back, his gaze becoming unfocused.
God is love. Billy heard his mother's words echoing hollowly inside his mind. You must obey God.
"Dr Williams is love," Billy whispered to the serpent. "I must obey her." The serpent winked. Then it moved, and Billy watched its glinting silver eyes as it eased, not to his cheek for the first downward stroke, but towards his throat. He closed his eyes as it came to rest against his carotid artery.
"Here?" he whispered, and felt a sudden calm wash over him. He would listen to the voice. He would obey the voice. It was God's will.