Page 254 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Or try to.

A few staggering steps—then he’s on me again, slamming me into the car.

The metal rattles beneath us.

“Give me your fucking shoes,” he snarls, hand pressing cruelly into my back.

I whimper, twisting, but he shoves me down until my cheek scrapes cold metal.

My shoes are ripped off—one after the other—and tossed through the open window like discarded confetti.

“Take off your pants,” he commands.

The air is cold against my skin, but my face burns as I obey, sliding my leggings down and kicking them away.

He tosses them in after my shoes.

Now I’m standing there—half dressed, half ruined.

A shirt. A bra. Nothing else.

Naked from the waist down. Exposed in every way that matters.

One of his hands captures both wrists, pinning them high against the door.

The other slides down—slow and brutal—between my legs.

I gasp, a broken sound, because I’m soaked.

Humiliation lances through me.

“You can lie to me,” he murmurs against my neck, “but not to your body.”

I shake my head, tears leaking hot and fast.

Ashamed. Furious.

But my hips betray me, bucking into the heel of his palm.

“You think you can kill a man and still pretend to be sweet and clean?”

His fingers work me—punishing strokes against my clit, plunging into me with no mercy.

I thrash, whimper, shudder—but I’m not trying to get free.

Not really and he knows it.

I know it.

And it’s killing me.

“You want this,” he growls. “You need this.”

Each word is a nail.

He keeps coaxing me—mouth filthy at my ear, hand filthier between my legs—dragging me closer.

“Please,” I cry out, barely a whisper. I was supposed to be a demand to stop. To let me go. Instead– “Please don’t stop.”

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