My nipples harden underneath my clothes.
No. Absolutely not. This is not happening.
I have dealt with death. I have dealt with watching my husband thrive after murdering me. I have dealt with being stuck with three unhinged serial killers who mess with my head in ways I do not want to unpack.
But this?
This is an affront to every single law of nature, morality, and common goddamn sense I have ever clung to.
I cannot just… want to fuck a serial killer.
I cannot want to fuck anyone.
“What is wrong with me?” I whisper, pressing a hand to my lower belly as the sensation stirs and stirs until I have to bite my lip.
“Stop staring,” Cassian commands.
Somehow, I manage to rip my gaze up to his very irritated, very bitter eyes, but it doesn’t help because I still know what’s happening below.
“I cannot,” I grind out, barely keeping my sanity intact. “Stop jerking off.”
Cassian lets out a grunt—one of annoyance. Annoyance. As if I’m the problem here.
But he keeps going.
As he’s watching me.
It’s like he knows. Like he can see every single embarrassing thought I don’t want to be having. His lips curve just slightly, and that low, husky voice slithers over my skin like a slow, creeping poison.
“You invade my privacy and now tell me what to do?”
A violent shiver rips through me. My fingers twitch at my sides, my brain desperately trying to reboot. I need to run. I need to leave. I need to—
My eyes drift lower again.
Oh.
His chest is covered in little goosebumps, his nipples tight from the cold air. His skin is flushed. His moving hand flexes at an angle that should not be affecting me, but it does, and every muscle on his abdomen ripples with the motion.
A little bit lower than that, he’s… so hard.
And he’s still watching me like he wants to devour me.
“I called for you,” I manage to say, licking my lips. Which is a mistake, because his cock twitches at the sound of my voice.
“The room is soundproof,” he grinds out. His voice breaks at the end, and for a second, I almost forget I dislike him. Almost forget he ever called me a wisp of nothing. Almost forget that I technically have no real body and therefore can’t just walk over there and test the theory of ‘is he as warm as he looks’ for myself.
“I was supposed to fetch you downstairs.”
“So you just… passed through the doors, huh?” He squeezes himself harder, eyes slamming shut for just a moment.
If I didn't know any better, I’d say my presence here turns him on. But that’s impossible, right? Out of the three murderers, Cassian is the one who treats me like an inconvenience—like a ghost lingering at the edge of his reality.
And yet, right now… he’s jacking off like it’s his job, his eyes locked onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
Like he wants me.
No. Like he needs me.
