Page 182 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I do—wet and desperate.

He groans, low and rough.

“Now pull out. Play with your clit again.”

The commands keep coming—soft, dark, relentless.

And I follow every one.

Touching. Stroking. Pushed to the edge, the climax is building—sharp and fierce?—

“Stop,” he orders.

I freeze, my whole body shaking from the denial.

Frustration and need twist together. Unbearable.

He waits until I’m steady again.

Then it starts over.

Pleasure. Denial.

Again and again.

It’s just his voice and my body—desperate need clawing under my skin, my legs twitching, pants and moans filling the room.

By the time I’m crying, it’s not soft.

I’m sobbing.

Mouth open. Gasping. Broken.

“Please,” I choke out. “Please, let me come. I can’t—I can’t—please?—”

He stays silent. Watching.

And I realize I’d do anything if he’d just let me break.

Anything.

Finally, he moves.

Pulls his hoodie over his head in one smooth motion and tosses it aside.

Underneath, a black compression shirt clings to every hard line of muscle.

I groan before I can stop myself.

He loosens his belt, dips his hand below the waistband, and pulls himself free.

My eyes widen.

He’s massive.

Long. Thick.

Heavy in his hand, he strokes himself lazily, like he knows exactly how devastating the sight is.

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