Page 162 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“You’re about to die. I’m telling you that so you can know how that feels. You killed that girl every time you went up them stairs.”

A dark stain spreads across the sheets. The air goes sour, the smell of ammonia sharp and biting.

I pull the syringe from one pocket, the vial from the other, and draw the liquid inside. I find his vein easily, sliding the needle in quick. He whimpers, but I have no mercy. I push the plunger, slow and steady, whispering him through it.

“Go to hell, motherfucker.”

Tori said to give it a few minutes, but I want him gone now. I pinch his nose and cover his mouth lightly with my palm. His body jerks a few times, then goes still.

Relief courses through my veins, as does something darker.

Pride.

I fucking redeemed myself.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I think I’m in shock for a minute, just staring down at it. Raya. The woman I just killed for. The woman who turns me upside down and inside out.

I hit call. It rings twice before her voice comes through, groggy and thick with sleep.

“What?” she mumbles.

“Come downstairs.”

There’s a beat of silence, then I hear her bare feet padding across the floor. The stairs creak beneath her weight, each step slower than the one before it. When she reaches the bottom, she sees me, her eyes dropping to the syringe in my hand.

Her lips part. Her expression is unreadable. Then she launches herself at me, arms tight around my neck, molding herself to me like we’re one entity.

I drop the syringe and hold her trembling body.

“Thank you,” she whispers into my chest. “I love you so much.”

She pulls back, lifting up on her toes. Her mouth finds mine, her kiss desperate and messy, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. I grab her ass, pulling her closer.

“Fuck me,” she says against my lips.

I open my eyes. “Raya—“

“I wanna celebrate. Let me celebrate,” she whines, and I realize I can’t tell her no. I never wanna tell her no. I wanna give her whatever she wants until she’s happy, and then give her some more.

I nod.

She drags me to the floor, right next to the bed that holds her father’s body. She pulls her t-shirt over her head. She’s naked underneath it, her skin glowing in the moonlight. I push my sweatpants down just enough, my dick already hard, and sink into her.

Hot. Wet. Greedy. She’s taking every inch of me and begging for more. Her nails rake down my back, and the stings let me know she’s shredding skin, leaving marks. But I don’t care. Her head tilts back, exposing her throat, and I can’t resist. I squeeze my hand around it, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp.

“Yes,” she moans. “Just like that.”

I see his hand in my peripheral vision, dangling over the side of the bed, still and frozen in time. But I keep my eyes locked on hers, aroused by what I see. Need. Devotion. Love. Pride. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to see in a woman’s eyes.

She comes apart beneath me.

I follow right behind her, a strong release, my hands still around her throat while her body milks me of everything I have.

The room smells like sex and death when we’re done.

I roll us over, letting her rest on top of me, absorbing the hardness of the wood floor so she doesn’t have to. Her chest is heaving, her skin damp.

She kisses me softly on my jaw. “You’re my hero.”

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