Page 255 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“Beg for it,” he commands.

“I need it,” I gasp. “I need everything.”

“Admit what you are, Poppy.”

I shake my head—a pitiful attempt.

His fingers thrust harder, grinding into hypersensitive nerves, and I sob the words before I can stop myself.

“I’m a killer,” I choke, the admission tearing out of me like a wound.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“Again,” he demands.

“I’m a killer,” I whisper, tears still streaming.

“And you’re mine,” he says roughly, lowering his mouth to my ear. “Say it. Say you belong to me.”

My whole body trembles.

He plunges two fingers inside—stroking deep, relentless—until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

“I—I belong to you,” I gasp.

“Good girl,” he breathes, growling at my throat.

He lifts me like nothing, my legs locking around his waist on instinct, carrying me to the hood of the car.

The slap of cold metal steals my breath.

One hand fists his cock, lining up.

My brain catches up just enough to blurt, “You don’t have on a condom,” like that should matter when I’m half-naked on a car in the woods after committing murder.

“I love your idea of foreplay, Sunshine.”

I can feel him grin behind the mask as he thrusts deep, driving a brutal moan from my throat.

“I don’t need a fucking condom, baby,” he growls. “I know you got your tubes tied.”

The words are a slap and a balm.

A filthy promise that slices through the last threads of sanity.

He yanks my bra up, pinching my nipple hard enough to make me cry out—timing it perfectly with a slam of his hips.

“You can’t get pregnant,” he rasps, “and you belong to me, Sunny. I fucking own you.”

His hands spread my thighs—it feels obscene. Vulgar.

And it’s perfect.

I can see everything.

Where we’re joined.

Where he’s stretching me.

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