As she licked away the salty tears of a pathetic dying man, Rosalie contemplated the beauty of his disemboweled body. The patterns his insides created were nothing short of an intricate work, so perfect and meaningful that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
Those maudlin thoughts unsettled her for she wasn't one to dwell on poetic conceptions of life and death. Puzzled she stopped tormenting her victim for a few seconds, just enough to give him the false hope that she was done with him.
Seeing the hope in his eyes, Rosalie chuckled darkly—the fool actually believed that he could survive their encounter. Sadistically, she allowed him to crawl out of bed and reach for the doorknob. His grunts of pain made her clit throb with desire and she lamented the fact that he was too debilitated to assuage her sexual needs.
Shrugging, she decided that it was time to end their game—the time was growing late and she still had to hunt for a bed partner. Naked and bathed in blood, she danced around him like a pagan sorcerer, quietly chanting an old ballad.
His last cry of desperation was surprisingly loud, attracting the unwanted attention of the motel manager.
