Page 148 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She’s soaked.

My finger slides through her like she’s been waiting just as long. A sound escapes me—dark and pleased. She clenches. I could slide into her right now.

Her shame is palpable.

She thinks I don’t notice the flush on her cheeks. That this humiliates her and ignites her at the same time.

“Wet already,” I murmur, grinning. My lips brush her ear.

“I knew you would be.”

I make her straighten and turn to face me. Her nipples graze my chest with every breath.

“You’re a monster,” she whispers. Her pupils blown wide, eyes brimming with tears.

I grin under the mask. She doesn’t back away.

Slowly, I lift my soaked finger. Pull my mask back slightly.

“I’m your monster.”

Then I slip my finger into my mouth.

And her lips pop open.

The taste of her coats my tongue—salt, heat, and everything I imagined, but more. It lingers like a secret I’ll never tell.

She watches. Her embarrassment is a living thing. So is her want.

The war between them flashes across her face, and I memorize it.

I lean in closer than I should. My mask brushes her throat, and I inhale deeply.

Skin. Sweat. Adrenaline.

I breathe her in like I’m making a memory I can carry into every nightmare.

Then I step back. The space I leave feels like a wound.

I watch it land. That cold rush. That ache she wasn’t expecting.

She misses me already.

She hates it. I fucking love it.

Silence stretches.

Tension, tight as a wire.

“Are you…” Her voice trembles. “Are you going to rape me?”

The world narrows to her.

I stare.

Long enough for her to doubt asking.

Long enough for her to feel the weight of it.

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