The Siren Song

a tumblr prompt, Not everyone is as they seem

She could see him, just a little farther up the sidewalk. As her eyes landed on him, time slowed, shrinking from her mind to dissolve into nothing. All that existed was her and this man. And she knew, as a mother knows when her child is in danger, that he was hers. 

From the back, all she could see was lightly curled blonde hair, on a tall figure. Incredibly tall. A dark green scarf covered the back of his neck from the biting chill, and a long black overcoat concealed broad shoulders from her view. Passerby moved around him, opening up like a blip in the stream, so he could walk forward unheeded. Waves of people parted like the Red Sea for Moses, and she wondered how a man could give off such a powerful aura as to subconsciously affect the people around him in such a way. She could nearly feel it from her position thirty or so feet behind him, buffeting against her skin like waves crashing on the shore. 

She sped up a little, getting closer to her target. She just knew, with an unerring certainty, that he was the man haunting her dreams. Whispering along the edges of the void of sleep, traipsing through her mindscape at all hours of the day until she was totally consumed by all that he was, what he could be to her. In her dreams, her fingers had slid over his cold cheekbones and wetly slicked muscles, silk over iron beneath her fingertips. Her heart fluttered when he turned to look at something to the side, barely glancing long lashed blue eyes and a hard jawline. It's him. 

Her feet carried her on lighthearted wings, until she was just behind him. His lengthy strides ate up the sidewalk, confident and brisk in his manner. Shoulders hunched against the cutting wind of the boardwalk, he looked out to the iron grey sea to their right once more. An aquiline nose, and dark brows, hovering over fierce eyes. She withheld a sigh, dreamily imagining running her fingers through his thick hair and staring into those blue eyes, filmed over with-- 

She hungered to reach out and grab the back of his coat, but she did not. She had to be careful; all of her dreams, fruitless months of only dreaming about what she wanted to do to him, rested on her actions. She needed to be subtle, to lure him in with a siren song. 

He moved to the left, and disappeared into a small coffee shop. She froze, considering: follow him into the coffee shop, or wait for him to exit and then continue her predatory stalk? He could not have known she was following him, from when she had caught sight of his tall, imposing figure in the park. Her brightly colored hair was covered tightly by a blue knit hat to guard against the chill, and her body was swallowed in a thick sweater. Nothing stood out about her, nothing for him to recognize from quick glances thrown over his shoulder and to the sides as he walked. She was unable to restrain herself from entering the coffee shop. He would not know she had followed him, so what harm would it be to approach him? 

The coffee shop door opened with a merry ding. The shop itself was unremarkable; low sofas, a few leather chairs, a set of tables in the far corner. The horribly picturesque paintings of the sea and the boardwalk right outside lined the walls, along with a few abstract pieces that made her eyes burn. Indie rock filtered over speakers into the air, heavy with the scent of ground coffee beans and whirring blenders. The air was warm, too warm for her sweater. She took it off and carried it over her arm. The shirt beneath, olive green with some ironic comment she cared nothing for, framed her figure quite nicely. If her plan worked, she would have taken off the sweater soon anyway, so she spared no thought to the quirk in her developing plan. 

It was nearly empty, save for the barista behind the long counter, a few couples, and the man of her dreams. He was seated on a couch, foot propped on his opposite knee so his leg was thrown out. A coffee, steaming with whimsical curls into the air, was clutched in one hand while the other held a sheaf of papers. He was scowling darkly at the papers, brows furrowed and mouth set in a grimace. She ached to rub her fingers on the crinkles between his brows, smooth those lines from his face forever, a permanent expression of calm. She wanted to make him so he would never scowl so again; her pulse sped up at just the thought. 

She approached the counter. To fit seamlessly into the surroundings, camouflage was necessary. Quickly placing an order for a small vanilla coffee, she leaned against the counter and absently fiddled with a napkin holder. The barista, a lanky boy with greasy hair pulled back into a queue and an unfortunate spread of acne, flitted his eyes over her. She ignored his appraisal; normally, she would have perhaps flirted a bit, despite his appearance. A boy like him was easily to manipulate, and she would have gotten a free coffee from the deal. But today, she had bigger things, a bigger target. 

He placed her coffee before her and she paid, in exact change. He opened his mouth, perhaps to engage her in some trivial conversation, but she walked away before anything awfully irrelevant spouted out, like a concern for the bad weather or a comment on something she would have to struggle to muster an interest in. 

The blonde man looked askance at her when she sat beside him on the overstuffed couch. The glance was quick, but his eyes widened and he looked back at her longer, eyes flickering on her body. They glued for a moment to her bright red hair, falling out from under her hat in dazzling tendrils. She observed his reaction, noticed how his hand tightened on his coffee, the muscle in his jaw ticking, how his foot twitched. All positive responses.

"Is there something you need?" he asked tersely, trying in vain to cover his reaction to her. 

"Just some easy conversation," she replied, eyes purposely trailing down. She let him see her checking him out, a formulated move. 

With a slight smile, he set down his papers and his coffee. Then, he began babbling about some inane subject she had no care for. She responded, nodding now and again, sometimes vigorously, to convey her deceitful interest. It was not apparent to him that he should be heedful of a girl, barely twenty, to be flirting with him; he had to be mid thirties himself. In fact, he seemed blown up, more confident by her approach. He stared boldly into her eyes, body language shifting from curious to open with a few minutes of conversation. 

She timed her responses, managing to appear interested in the topic. She could not tell someone what they had been discussing. Occasionally, a touch on the arm or playful slap on the thigh made his pretty blue eyes brighter, his movements veering dangerously close to arrogant. 

Only a little longer. 

Finally, they reached the breaking point; conversation lulled, their coffees, forgotten on the table, were cold. Patrons had entered and left in the interim, the soundtrack had played three times. She had directed him into an appropriate frame of thought, of belief in her character. He was leaning forward slightly, long arm strung along the couch on his side. He was facing her, seated beside him, one hand propped on his leg. She was facing him as well, her body angled to set one elbow on the couch, lightly brushing the skin of his arm. Her legs were pulled up onto the cushion, folded beneath her body. His fingers tapped against his knee, betraying his thoughts; he was impatient, wanting the conversation to lead them exactly where she planned. With a few minor differences. The arrogant cast to his features, eyebrows raised imperiously and mouth quirked in a smirk, were all indicators: she had succeeded. 

She looked down and smiled, then glanced up at him, her eyes striped by thick black lashes. She blushed slightly, and trailed a finger along his arm, barely touching his skin. Beneath her fingertip, she could feel thickly corded muscle. Her blood heated. 

"We could go somewhere more... private, to finish this conversation," she said, chewing a fingernail as she looked at him expectantly. 

He smiled brilliantly and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. "That sounds fantastic," he said, slipping his coat over his shoulders. His papers lay forgotten. 

He slid an arm around her waist, familiarly tucking two fingers into the belt loop of her jeans. As she smiled up at the man of her dreams, she barely withheld a shiver of satisfaction. 

Finally. She had dreamed of him for months, imagining his body after she was done with him, and now he was in her clutches. Anticipation roiled in her stomach. She had him. He was hers. 

She had known it, the first moment she had laid eyes on him in the park. He would irrevocably change her life, in ways she had only imagined. 

He was it. 

The first man she would kill.  

Author's Note

Give me anything and everything

Reviews

[Rewel Acosta Rivera]

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You are a bestseller writer, do the appropriate for write and publish. Have faith.