Page 66 of Bake the Town Red

It was Al.

Her, though… Being with Dahlia over the last week has made me believe things could be better.

That said, I’m not well.

I’m afraid I might do the worst. Tear her apart. Eat her flesh. Suck on her bone marrow until every part of her is here with me. I’m not a cannibal. It’s her. She makes me want things. Crave the sickest things.

I could hurt her.

I’ll have to be mindful. I’ll have to take small steps.

Footfalls of sneakers on concrete alert me that someone’s approaching. I pocket my phone. The scent of vanilla, chocolate, and murder reaches my nose before my eyes make out her face in the dark.

Dressed in a bright purple sweater and black jeans that hug her curves, Dahlia Valentine is everything I could’ve ever wanted. Her blonde locks are tamed in a high ponytail at the top of her head.

Her blue eyes gleam. At me. Her stare is as wicked as she is.

“What do you want, Tyler?” She seethes. Snarling. Flashing me her tiny canines.

Six feet separate us. Almost close enough for me to reach for her and take her black shoulder bag for her. Be a gentleman.

I am not a gentleman.

When I write my blog, words flow, no problem.

Here, with Dahlia, my emotions are a mess. They’re all over the fucking place.

“You,” is the one word I offer.

“To eat me out and leave me hanging again?” A dark blonde eyebrow raises. Her blue eyes are predatory. “Thanks, I’ll pass.”

She’s baiting me again.

Two can play this game.

“Was it too much for your pretty pussy?” I prowl forward, grabbing her waist. Pulling her back toward the building. Into the darkness.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Her hand clutches at the front of my hoodie. Right over my chest. She could always tell where I hurt the most. It makes me angry, realizing what an open book I am to her.

Doesn’t matter that we’ve been apart for years. She still knows me better than I know my own damn self.

“Lying won’t get you anywhere. Your clit was hard. You were soaking my chin. Those little desperate moans you made.” There’s a taunting edge to my voice. Lust, as well. And a need. A never-ending need for her. “It was too much. You finished yourself off later, didn’t you?”

Right after you slaughtered and disposed of the middle-aged woman who walked into Sweet DeNights.

“Went to the nearest bar straight after.” Her nails dig deeper, trying to scratch my chest beyond my hoodie and my T-shirt. “Had a guy finish the job you wouldn’t do. The job youcouldn’tget done.”

I spin us fast, slamming her back into the glass door of the apartment building. It rattles with the force of the blow.

“The fuck you did.”

Our faces are close. Her breaths are sweet. Her glare is homicidal. The teasing smirk on her red lips has me second-guessing myself.

I can’t afford to second-guess myself. Not around her.

My woman. My deadly python.

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