Page 48 of Half the Summer's Night
My killer slides a second finger inside me, pressing up against my walls. I cry out sharply, the intensity of it thick and unexpected. Then he presses the pad of his thumb against my clit, and my legs shake with need.
He knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how to touch me.
“That feels good for you,” he says. It’s not a question, and he moves his hand faster, fingers and thumb working in tandem. My whole body shudders, and the only reason I’m still standing is because I’m clinging to him in desperation.
“You’re going to come soon,” he adds, tilting his head toward me, pressing the mask’s mouth against the top of my forehead.
“H-how can you tel-tell?” I choke out. He’s right, of course. Pleasure swirls around in my belly.
“I can hear it.” He shifts something in the way he touches me, pressing his fingers in even deeper. I gasp and dig my nails into the fabric of his shirt, feeling his skin relent beneath them. “The way your blood beats faster.”
I keen softly. His words introduce a new vein of fear into my pleasure, but that fear just makes everything better.
“How can you—” My words catch as his fingers fall into an exquisite, perfect rhythm against my G-spot. And then I can’t get anything out at all beyond a low, panty keening.
My killer laughs softly.
“I told you.” His mask presses against my hair. “I can smell it. Sense it.”
My pleasure builds until it’s almost unbearable. All I can do is roll my hips against his hand, too caught up in my ecstasy to care that this iswrong. But I don’t want to be moral. All I want is to come all over his fingers.
And then he jerks his hand away.
I shriek in protest, the sudden lack of his touch devastating. “What are you?—”
He sweeps me up and over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” I shout on instinct. My fear spikes, a cold vein of ice against the pulsing heat of my aborted orgasm. I was so fucking stupid, letting him touch me like that. Now I’m going to die.
“I will,” my killer says, carting me unceremoniously down the hall. I struggle against him, still distracted and shuddery and impossibly turned on. “I’m just looking for a good?—”
He steps into the viewing room and switches on the light, revealing the rows of neatly-placed chairs and the soft drapes falling around the big picture window that looks out at the flowergarden. Uncle Vic would always set the deceased in front of the window so they could have a view of the flowers.
There hasn’t been a deceased person in here since Uncle Vic’s funeral, although the dais is still in place, draped in black. I could never bear to touch this room, which is why I left everything the way Uncle Vic always kept it.
But now, my killer flips me over and lays me out on the dais, like I’m a dead body waiting for her funeral.
I blink up at him, fear making my breath tight and lust making my legs spread. He pushes his mask up again, giving me another tantalizing view of his lips.
“This is the first place I ever saw you,” he rasps. “In this room. In front of this window.”
A million thoughts surge through me: every funeral I ever worked, every body I ever watched over. Thousands of faces. Hundreds of tall, dark-haired men.
And then I’m not thinking of any of them, because my killer is yanking my shorts and panties down over my legs.
“I want to taste your orgasm,” he says, throwing them aside and then crawling up on the dais with me. “I bet your pleasure’s as sweet as ice cream.”
For a moment, I’m too stunned to respond.
Then he hooks his arms around my knees and hoists me up, practically bending me in half, and latches his mouth to my cunt.
I moan in pleasure, dropping my head back against the dais and relenting to him completely. He slides his tongue along my slit and then presses it inside me to lap at my inner wall. He kisses me as deeply and slowly as he did earlier. Deeper, even.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my thighs trembling wildly on either side of his head. I drop my gaze over to the window. Unlike the dead, I can’t see the flower garden because the night has turned the window into a mirror. Instead, I see my legs wrapped around a masked killer’s head as he feasts on my cunt.
Lust surges up through my core. I stare at the reflection, panting and hungry, watching as I roll my hips up against him, thrusting and jerking. He never stops licking me. His tongue probes through my folds and over my clit, and I give a desperate, shuddering moan. It occurs to me, distantly, that if someone were to drive by on Hatch Street, they would see everything.
Andthatthought sends even more lust surging toward my core.
