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Tonight he would give her red roses. Not pink. Not white. No, tonight the flowers would be crimson. The colour of blood. The colour of the gown he had told her to wear for this very special occasion.
He is a romantic searching for the perfect specimen. A woman to claim as his own. Perhaps he has found her
together they will be perfect. But alas it is not to be. He does love her. In fact, he loves her to death.
Now he must again search for the one woman to be his
alone.
Excerpt
Tonight when he showed Zara how much she really meant to him. He would show her how much he cared.
Suddenly, there came a knock.
With quick precise steps he strode to the entrance of his studio in Oxford Street London, turned the handle and opened the door. A petite, beautifully formed young woman of around twenty-nine looked up at him, desire shining in her exotic almond eyes. She moistened her full lips and tossed back her long flowing dark hair.
"Zara, you're here at last."
"Yes," she said, smiling seductively. She stood before him in her glamorous scarlet gown. He took her hand. Pressed a single red rose into it. She felt a sharp stab of pain as a thorn pricked her flesh.
Flinching, she looked into his eyes and lifted the bleeding finger to her lips, sucking the blood. "You hurt me," she pouted, her lips moist and full. "Why did you do that?"
He again took her hand, kissing the palm. He placed it on his heart. "So you would feel everything there is to feel."
She gave a relieved laugh, her hand resting lightly against his chest.
It was so romantic.
Red roses were everywhere.
He interlocked his fingers in hers. "Roses have a unique hold upon us, Zara. I have selected only the very best." He led her to the middle of the room, rose petals crushing beneath their feet. The released perfume filled the air with a sweet, overpowering, intoxicating scent mingling with the softer fragrance in the room. "Look around you. I have gathered roses ranging from the very dark Cara Mia to the large flowered Madam Delbard to the bright red Kardinal."
She sighed. "You are the most romantic man I have ever met."
He took her to the dining table and drew out a chair for her, then seated himself opposite. "I want tonight to be a night like no other. A night dedicated to you and red roses."
Zara smiled across at him and he picked up a bottle of Rosemount Shiraz, pouring the wine into two glasses with roses entwined in the stems.
He handed her one. "To you," he toasted.
"And to you," Zara replied, bringing the burgundy liquid to her lips.
"As Shakespeare said, there is a meaning kept in the rose that we have to understand, just as the rose keeps its scent within itself." He smiled. "Amuse me. Finish this sonnet of his in your own words. 'I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I'"
"Except the rose of my heart," Zara finished, proud of herself. "My heart is your rose, Jonathon."
"Beautifully rendered." He took a sip of wine and stood, turning the music up a little. The song was nearing the end of its fifth cycle and he wanted Zara to hear the opening words. They were words that suggested that she had somehow made him sad; they were words that suggested that she had offended him.
Jonathon gazed down at her in a superior manner. He raised the volume.
"I want you to listen to this, Zara. Listen closely."
Zara's lovely mouth pouted. Why is he spoiling our wonderful evening? She smoothed down her red dress. Raised a hand to her shining, ebony hair. "What on earth have I done for you to play such a mournful song?"
"In the twentieth century, a splendid new interpretation of the rose and nightingale story was given by Bediuzzaman Said Nursi. It is a discussion of the nightingale. That is you, my dear."
"I don't understand."
"The nightingale receives its pleasure from pouring out its woes to the rose. In other words its sorrowful song is not a complaint; rather, it is thanks for the gifts of the most Merciful."
Zara stood, puzzled.
He took another sip of the Shiraz. "Drink with me, my rose."
Zara lifted the glass, swallowed, and found the room swimming around her. She took an unsteady step forward before slumping to the ground. She was still semi-conscious and her eyelids fluttered.
Her lips moved, but no sound escaped them.
"You are the poor tainted nightingale," he crooned softly in her ear. He unzipped his pants and knelt beside her. Turning her over onto her back, he pushed up her skirt, removed her underwear and without haste, took out his large engorged phallus. He savagely entered her in one swift movement.
Zara gasped.
She tried to fight him but found she had no strength. He continued to move, to thrust inside her, his relentless, vicious attack finally ending when he reached his climax.
Sexually satisfied, Jonathon withdrew from her. He zipped up his pants. "And now, my rose, now you are ready to give thanks for your last gift."
* * *
Easily he lifted her small frame, carried her across the dining and lounge areas into the bedroom.
Gently, carefully, he laid her down upon the bed of blood red roses and she let out a single scream as a thousand poisonous thorns pierced her flesh.
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