Page 157 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I try to jerk away, but the restraints pull tighter. Try again to curl in, to protect—but the spreader bar holds me wide.

No defense. Only sensation.

Only him.

My pulse stutters. Breath comes fast through my nose. Every nerve raw.

I try to cry out, to protest, but the sound is helpless. Wet. And worst of all, not a no.

It’s been so long since I’ve been touched. Longer since I wanted to be.

Now I’m suspended between violation and surrender, shame and need. My body responds before my mind can catch up.

The mouth groans, sound pressing into me. I moan again, arching, chasing a feeling I shouldn’t want.

“You finally joined the party, Sunshine.”

His voice is low. Not taunting—reverent. Like this is a moment he’s waited for.

He exhales, breath fanning over wet skin, then resumes, lips sealing around that aching place.

I try to say no. Push the word past the gag.

This is wrong. I should say it.

But my protest dies on a gasp as he sucks harder, tongue circling slow.

I move with him now.

My body doesn’t care what my conscience whispers.

Thighs trembling. Hands pulling at the cuffs, reaching for something to hold.

I reach down—straining—and my fingers touch his hair.

Soft. Thick.

He’s taken off the mask.

The knowledge sends a ripple of panic and something else through me.

I should pull away and demand he stop.

But I don’t.

My fingers curl against his scalp.

And I let him stay.

Because even though my body is bound and my voice silenced… I feel alive.

And in this terrible, impossible moment—I don’t want him to stop.

He pulls away slowly, like it hurts. The absence sends a rush of cool air over drenched skin.

“If you want me to stop, baby, just tap me twice.”

He licks me, then presses an open-mouthed kiss against my center.

---