Page 51 of Psycho Pack

Clinical.

Clean.

Everything I'm not.

His hands slide up my bare chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Those surgeon's fingers map every scar, every imperfection, with terrifying precision. Like he's memorizing me. Studying me.

I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Stop that," I growl against his mouth.

"Stop what?" His voice stays maddeningly calm even as his hips roll against mine.

"Treating me like one of your fucking specimens."

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze. Those pale blue eyes pierce right through me. "Would you prefer I treat you like a patient?"

Before I can process what he means, his hand slides down my stomach and wraps around my cock through my pants.

His grip is perfect.

Clinical.

Precise.

"Fascinating response to stimulus," he murmurs, stroking me with maddening control. "Subject exhibits clear signs of arousal despite halfhearted verbal protests?—"

I grab his wrist, pinning it above his head. "I said stop."

"Why?" His free hand traces the outline of my cock, making me shudder. "Does it bother you that I can read you so easily? That I know exactly what you need?"

"You don't know shit," I snarl, but my hips buck into his touch.

"No?" His thumb circles the head of my cock through the fabric. "Then why are you so hard for me?"

I capture his other wrist, pinning both his hands above his head with one of mine. His lean body arches into the contact, but his face stays infuriatingly neutral.

"Maybe I just need to get off," I growl, grinding against him. "Maybe you're just convenient. Maybe I just wanna practice for Ivy."

He arches an eyebrow again. His favorite goddamn expression. "What are you going on about?"

"She knows what we did," I mutter. "And she wants to watch. Maybe I don't wanna make a fuckin' idiot out of myself when she does."

"Oh, she does, does she?" Amusement—and something darker I don't fucking like at all—glitters in Plague's eyes. "Don't worry, you'll make an idiot of yourself no matter what."

I growl at him. "Stop running your mouth."

"You do make a good point, though," he muses. "Perhaps weshouldpractice. At least we'd be less likely to kill each other, no?"

I snort. "Nothing would make that less likely."

"Likewise," he says dryly. His voice finally cracks slightly as I bite down on his neck. "So… this is just about release and playing games to you. You don't dream about that night in the clinic."

"Shut up."

"You don't dream about my hands on your?—"

"I saidshut up."

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