Page 207 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I just want to feel.

He pulls me flush against him.

One hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing slow circles across my cheekbone like he’s memorizing every inch. Like Declan did in the closet today.

For one breathless second, there’s only the tension humming between us.

And then his lips find mine.

Hesitant at first, barely more than a whisper.

Testing. Tasting.

But it doesn’t stay that way.

It deepens fast—hungry, consuming, a quiet, devastating claim.

His mouth is firm, demanding, hot.

He kisses like he wants to devour me.

A helpless sound escapes my throat the second my lips part.

His tongue finds mine, slow and precise, devastating in its finesse.

My arms loop around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair—holding on because I don’t trust gravity anymore.

He tilts my chin, deepens the kiss, dragging noises from me I didn’t know I could make.

He steals every breath. Every thought. Every last shard of fear.

It’s not the way I imagined my first kiss.

It’s not clumsy or sweet.

It’s not gentle or uncertain.

It’s fire. Hunger. Surrender.

The kind of kiss that ruins you for anything else.

The kind that burns itself into your bones and stays long after the lips that gave it are gone.

Time ceases to matter.

Seconds or hours—what difference does it make?

Everything stopped the moment he touched me.

Just when I think he’ll pull away, he doesn’t.

He only slows us down.

His hands roam, dragging fire in their wake.

He pulls back to shift the angle—then takes my mouth again.

My arousal spirals.

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