Page 124 of The Night Shift
My orgasm starts barreling toward me at an impossibly fast pace. I amnotgoing to beg. Not a fucking chance —
His pace slows.No!
“Theo, please!” I cry out. “I need…please make me come…” I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. IHATEhim more than words can convey.
“You look so pretty when you beg.”
White-hot pleasure blazes through me as I come all over Theo’s cock. Every thought and memory incinerated. My entire body is ablaze. Each ripple of pleasure feels a thousand times better than cutting him. Than cutting anyone.
He continues to fuck me, he keeps asking me about all the different ways I want to hurt him. Kill him. And with every elaborate technique that leaves my mouth, he keeps making me come. Once. Twice. Three times. But never to my senses.
Chapter 25
Theo
Twelve hours later
EGH
“You’re making that weird face again,” Kennedy says.
“Kennedy!” her mom scolds.
“What? Look at it.” She jabs a finger in my direction. “He’s smiling like a little weirdo.”
Mrs. Fraser shoots me an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry.”
I tell her not to worry about it. She’s right. Iamsmiling like — well not a little weirdo, but perhaps a smug bastard? How could I not?
It’s been twelve hours and one minute since Holly Moore came all over my cock and fingers. Twelve hours and fifteen minutes since she begged me for it. And twelve hours and thirty-two minutes since she kissed me.
Shekissedme.
There is no universe where I’m going to be normal about this.
My brain has been fried since the moment she pressed her lips to mine. And all it took was bashing in some fucker’s skull with a brick for getting his hands on her. I mean, honestly. If I’dknown it was that easy, I would’ve started my murder spree ages ago. One cracked skull a day to not keep my doctor away.
After making her come three times, I carried her spent, boneless body to my car, went back for the dead one, threw him in the trunk, and drove to the same spot we buried the last two. I would’ve asked her if she wanted a different location, but she passed out five minutes into the drive — and I’d rather put a bullet in my skull than wake her up for something so trivial.
Eventually, I drove her home. Carried her up. Offered to tuck her in.
She told me to go fuck myself. I tucked her in anyway.
By the time I came back to my flat, it was almost five in the morning and Dog was expectantly waiting by the door for his breakfast.
I close Kennedy’s chart. “So, everything looks good overall. No signs of new damage, and the fusion is holding well. But the MRI showed a possible syrinx —”
Mrs. Fraser’s brows knit together.
“A fluid-filled cyst in the spinal cord,” I clarify. “If it grows, it could put pressure on the nerves. Right now, it’s small, so we’ll monitor it. But if it starts affecting her function, we might need to drain it surgically.”
Mrs. Fraser stiffens. “More surgery?”
Kennedy lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, yay. Another surgery.” She looks at her mother. “Could I get some more ice cream to cope with this life-altering news? Strawberry.”
Mrs. Fraser shoots her a look.
Kennedy sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. Vanilla will do too, but I won’t be happy about it.”
