Page 114 of Bake the Town Red

“One.” Her breath flutters on my neck. When she doesn’t finish the sentence, I’m compelled to meet her eyes. They’re demanding. Curious. She’s sick like me, and I love that about her. “One of them you do remember. Tell me.”

“The last one was shorter than me, but bulkier. Stan. He killed three tourists between last Christmas and New Year’s.” I curl my hand around her neck, rubbing her jaw with my thumb. “The police didn’t have any leads. Three people were seen leaving the same bar on different occasions and disappeared. Their family and friends hadn’t heard from them. No one’s seen them. Gone.”

The memories of the case turn me on. The hunt, chasing their murderer. The rightness of it, combined with Dahlia’s legsaround my waist, is intoxicating. I can’t take another breath without being inside her.

Without freeing her wrists, I pull my dick out and push into Dahlia.

“Oh, fuck,” I groan, pressing my forehead to hers.

My cock stretches her tight cunt, and she winces the first few thrusts. Both my hands slip low. One to her throat, the other to the mattress next to her. She doesn’t look down, though, at the soreness in her breast.

She looks at me. At my strained face as I drag my cock in and out of her. While I make her scream for me.

“And?” She tries to keep her voice level. To hide her moan. And fails. “What happened?”

“Good girl.” I pound into her, each thrust a punishment. “Good fucking girl for not moving your arms, Dahlia.”

“Tell me.”

“You tell me, Dahlia. Does your chest still sting?”

“Just the right kind of pa—” She rolls her eyes when I hitthatspot. “Yes. Yes, yes. Now you.”

She’s as turned on as I get when I imagine her covered in other people’s blood. Every muscle in my body works to fuck her. I’m hurting her. Loving her. I’m hers.

“When I got there, he was roofying his fourth victim’s cocktail. She was in the bathroom. I lied and told him she bailed on him, that she’s just out back and waiting for—Jesus, Dahlia.”

Her pussy clenches around me. Her lips are round and she can hardly breathe.

This orgasm isn’t just from my cock slamming into her. It’s more than my groin rubbing on her sensitive clit. It’s my story.

I’m irrationally angry. I’m balls deep inside her, my fingers bruising her slender throat, but I’m mad. She was such a happy girl once. She shouldn’t reach her climax fromthis. I didn’t want it to happen, but here we fucking are.

And I won’t take it out on her.

It costs me to lock my anger up in a box. Stowing it away takes a toll on my sanity. Then I look at her—eyes glazed, little fangs peeking from parted lips—and I can do it. I can do anything for her. Iwilldo anything for her.

“You’re such a good girl. Coming on my cock like that,” I talk her through her orgasm. I fuck her through her orgasm. “Squeezing my cock dry. You want to have my baby, don’t you, little savage?”

“Need,” she moans, locking my cock in a vise grip. “Need to have your babies, Ty.”

“Yours.” This is so wrong. This is everything that’s right in this world. “You’ll get everything. Skin me, rip my goddamn heart out. It’s all yours.”

I’m down on my forearms. So close to her, right in her face, and she’s all I see. I’m all she’ll ever have. This is how it’ll be for us. Forever. Sick. Twisted. Obsessive to a fault.

We might …fuck, I don’t know. Die from having too much sex, if that’s even a thing. If it is, it could happen to us. No doubt about it.

But we’ll be together.

Because if the four years of anger and fear have taught me anything, it’s that some things are worse than death.

Living a life without Dahlia isn’t a life worth living. It’s fucking purgatory is what it is.

She gasps when I flip us over, when I sit against the headboard and glare at her.

“Mine?”

“Yours. Just not tonight. Now, take my clothes off.”

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