Chapter 12: The Warehouse

Words : 1375 Updated : Sep 18th, 2025

Miranda had been here two months and hadn't lived anything close to a normal life. It wasn't for lack of trying. Even the village chief had come sniffing around. She had never said yes, not once. She would rather grit her teeth and ride out the long nights with toys than compromise. She didn't look down on country people; what she couldn't stand was that every man who came around was past his prime and not built for what she wanted. Her appetites were considerable. They couldn't hope to satisfy her. Better to wait than start and find she couldn't stop. At last, her wait was over. The moment she saw Nixon Walker, she knew he was the one. At first glance he looked lean, but up close the muscle on his forearms told another story, and his scent hit her in a hot wave-a thick, unmistakable masculinity, like a hallucinogenic drug-lethal to women. In the warehouse's dusty half light, Nixon studied Miranda. Her lips gleamed with pink gloss, and a slant of sun fell across the corner of her mouth, a bright little spark, as if inviting him to taste. He didn't hesitate. He bent and kissed her. His hands were never idle. One slipped across her front, kneading through her track jacket, and the feel under his palm was all too familiar. Without a second thought, he tugged the zipper down. She had nothing on underneath. The black track jacket framed her willowy figure, swaying under his slow caress. "Mmm... Mr. Walker..." Those words snapped his restraint. He went a little mad. There was a stack of foam mats like the ones from PE class. He pressed her back, guiding Miranda onto a mat. Her hair spilled across the army green foam, her lids hooded to slits, the edge of a smile playing at her mouth. Her eyes had a weird, eager gleam, as if she couldn't wait for what was coming. Nixon buried his face against her and, unbidden, remembered. He had been in town barely two days when he'd already sampled three different women. Back at the university he never had it this good. The women there looked prim, but underneath they were anything but; if you wanted to sleep with them, you had to pay. He had been a broke student. With no money, he'd been left to take care of himself. On the eve of starting work, he'd gone to a bar to cut loose and met a gorgeous woman. A night of passion was all too short. He thought it would be a delicious memory; it turned into the root of his present trouble. He'd been packed off from the city to this village. It didn't matter. The women here, he told himself, were far better than the city crowd. "Miranda, you are on fire." "Ah... Mr. Walker! You are amazing!" Miranda's soft, breathy little sounds weren't showy or exaggerated. Just her body's honest response. Nixon didn't hold back. He gave her all he had. Outside the warehouse, the loudspeakers blared the school's calisthenics, brassy and rousing. Inside, their own tender rhythm would have made a saint blush. The mid-morning break flew by-only twenty-five minutes. Reluctantly, Nixon peeled himself away. When he tried to pull free, Miranda blurted, "Don't." "Why not?" Nixon asked with a wicked little smile. "What, you're not going to class?" Deep down, Miranda wasn't as freewheeling as she had just seemed. She had only been pent up for far too long. Even so, she felt a prick of regret at how forward she'd been, as if she'd made herself look ravenous. "Then… class is about to start. You should head back." She tugged the zipper of her jacket up. As she zipped up, his gaze stayed locked on her. "You head to class… Mr. Walker, my dorm isn't far from you. From your yard, walk back about a hundred meters-the small one-story house with the tiled exterior is mine. The key is under the flowerpot by the door." Cheeks flushed, Miranda spoke quickly. By the time she finished, she had tidied herself and slipped out, pulling the door shut. From start to finish, they hadn't talked about equipment at all. The "going to fetch gear" pretext had been exactly that-a pretext conjured out of thin air. After school, Nixon went home, did a quick cleanup, and headed to Mckenzie's place. He hadn't even crossed the threshold before the smell of meat hit him. He hadn't had meat in two or three days. The aroma made his stomach growl. He pushed the door open. Ophelia Reed called out happily, "Mr. Walker!" Nixon gave a small nod and headed toward the kitchen. Before he reached it, a strange little cry floated out. He couldn't quite name it. It wasn't the sound from earlier. It was like a kitten mewling, a soft whimper with a little lilt at the end, like it was begging for attention. Nixon pushed the kitchen door open. The sight on the other side sent his blood surging.

Chapter 12: The Warehouse

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