Page 206 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I tilt my head up, chest rising in shallow gasps.

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

Not a plea.

A dare.

A broken challenge tossed between us like a lit match.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just holds my gaze, like he’s making sure I know what I’m asking for.

Then he steps closer.

My heart stutters.

He cups my face in his hands, thumbs stroking my cheeks with an almost unbearable gentleness.

“You’ll behave?”

I nod, my face flushed.

He glances past me, grabs a bandana from the coatrack.

He turns me gently, my shoulder brushing the wall, and slides the fabric over my eyes.

Darkness swallows everything, forcing me to feel instead of see.

Another sound—the faint slide of fabric again—and I know he’s removing the balaclava.

His bare hands lift mine.

He presses my palm to his mouth making me gasp.

The soft brush of his lips narrows my world to breath and skin.

A shiver rolls through me as my fingers trace the stubble of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth.

He exhales raggedly when I touch his lips.

The heat of it ghosts across my trembling fingers.

I reach higher without thinking.

Find his hair—thick, soft, a little wavy—and drag my fingers through it, scratching lightly at his scalp.

A low, needy sound rumbles from his chest.

A vibration that sinks into my bloodstream and takes root.

My heart pounds.

I’m trapped between the cold wall and the heat of him.

Blind. Trembling. Wanting.

And for once—I don’t want to think.

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