You're cold and I burn / Band Of Brothers Winnix

Serial Killer

[So I murder love in the night. Watching them fall one by one...]

....

It was like every other night. Lewis Nixon sat at the bar, ordering his third drink. The night was still young. Much could happen.

Not much later he found himself, thrusting into a moaning and whimpering body on the wall in the bathroom.

When she was dressed properly again, she kissed him on the cheek and handed him a note with her adress before she joined her friends and left.

He scoffed.

Didnt they know that some dangerous men out there could use this as an invitation and murder them in their own home??

Women are so pathetic.

He crumbled the piece of paper and flushed it down the toilet.
He was no gentleman, by far not, but he was not a killer.

Not a killer like that anyway.

He had been at war. In the army. France, Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. He had seen more death than love. More grieve than happiness.

Back in the states, he lost everything for being spared with his life. His wife, now ex wife, divorced him, took everything she could lay her hands on and left him with a bare house, too much Vat 69 and loneliness. Oh and a promise to to himself never to open his heart again.

He hadnt killed in the war, cheers to the army for being promoted by the way. Gave him nothing but a life and enough time to drink himself senseless to get the horrible scenes out of his head. Scenes with men, nearly still kids, with blood, sometimes fucked up beyond recognition when they got hit by a grenade, only shreds left of the human body.

He shuddered at the thought and ordered another drink.

He never killed with a gun, but the war had formed him to be a killer. So when his wife left, he decided to kill the one thing that makes people happy.

Love.

And there were enough women, desperate for love.
They flirted, let him buy them drinks and let him fuck them now and then.

Sometimes they asked for a second date after he pulled his dick out of them.
They whispered sweet things and he noticed the signs.

That was when he killed.

He was a charmer at first. He knew his name, his money, that he was a soldier, were facts that made women weak.
But he could wrap his fingers around women, it was ridiculously easy.
A few sweet words, a light touch in only appropiate places, an angelic smile and he got them.

Sometimes they fuck in the bathroom. Sometimes they take him home.

But the end was always the same.

After he pulled himself out of her warm, sweaty body, he got dressed and left.

No cuddling. No sweet words. Nothing.

Sometimes, when he had a sentimental day, he stayed until they fell asleep and left a note that said that he only loved the thrill of the rush.

They sometimes declared their interest for more a long term relationship and he set his terms: One night, take it or leave it.

Tonight he sat alone.

But he had spotted his next victim.
She was brunette and her body looked exquisite.
He could picture her body moving under his.

And he felt the familiar thrill running through his body.
To find a connection that would made her go with him.

Unfortunately he loved them all too much, caused by the adrenaline when he seduced them, but after his high he lost interest at all and murdered the love, the intimacy, they had shared.