Page 208 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The ache between my thighs sharpens, pulsing, demanding.

I’m the one who grows hungrier.

My kisses turn urgent, desperate.

I rock against him, feel the rigid proof of how badly he wants this too.

He groans—a raw, guttural sound—and then abruptly pulls away.

The absence hits like a freight train.

Air rips into my lungs as if I’d forgotten how to breathe.

I reach blindly in front of me with one hand, the other pressed to my tingling, swollen lips—still hot from everything he took.

My legs shake.

The world is silent.

Too silent.

There are no footsteps, no breath.

No whisper of a heartbeat thumping close to me.

Just the weight of him missing.

And then?—

The soft creak of the front door closing.

I rip the bandana from my eyes, heart hammering in my chest.

He’s gone.

Panic crashes through me as I stumble forward, flinging the front door open hard enough to make the hinges scream.

Cold night air rushes in, sharp against my overheated skin.

I blink into the darkness, eyes scanning frantically—desperate, breathless.

At first, nothing.

Then I see him.

A shadow slipping between the pools of streetlight, moving with the silent certainty of someone who’s always known how to disappear.

He lifts a helmet, slides it over his head.

The black visor snaps down with a final, brutal click.

He swings one leg over the motorcycle like it’s second nature.

Sits like he was born there—solid, sure, untouchable.

"Wait," I choke, stumbling forward.

"Please—wait!"

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