She pulls back, her head tilting in a full 360-degree wobble, like a bobblehead on a dashboard.
Her eyes search mine, wide and longing, but unfocused, like she’s trying to pin down a dream. She sways, one hand flailing for balance, and nearly topples off the bed before catching herself with a hiccupped laugh. Drunk as hell. Her legs kick out in a goofy, exaggerated scissor motion, like she’s trying to dance lying down, and she giggles again, louder this time.
“You’re so… fucking hot,” she slurs.
This has to be some kind of record.
I’ve been called hot more times in the past hour than in my entire miserable existence. By one woman. With wine breath.
Her hand—small, warm, and definitely not where it should be—slides down my chest. Bold. Unapologetic. Until her fingers press against the front of my jeans.
I stop breathing.
But I don’t move.
I should. I should shut this down, push her hand away, remind myself she’s drunk and I’m not a fucking monster.
Instead, I stand there and let it happen.
Her palm molds to the outline of my cock, and I’m hard.Harder than I’ve been in years.Maybe ever. It’s humiliating. Infuriating. Alarming.
Me—The Reaper—the cold bastard they send to clean up blood-soaked messes, brought to full fucking attention by a half-naked drunk girl in cracked green face paint and novelty panties.
Her touch is uncoordinated but eager, rubbing me through the denim with the confidence of someone who doesn’t give a single fuck about consequences.
“Oh…” she purrs, her laugh turning into something wicked. “You… are soooOoOoo hard…”
A grunt punches out of me, rough and involuntary.
Suka.
Her tongue flicks out, slow and obscene, and her eyes catch mine; glassy, mischievous, absolutely hammered. She’s a walking disaster. Tangled hair, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, wine fumes rolling off her like cheap perfume. A woman-shaped trainwreck.
And she’sglowing.
I should move. I should stop this. My hands remain at my sides, knuckles white with restraint, but I don’t pull away. I let her keep touching me. Let her stroke me like I’m her favorite toy.
I’ve never been called hot. Not once.
Efficient? Yes. Deadly? Always. A ghost. A shadow.The Reaper.
I don’t make threats. I deliver endings.
But this one—this drunk, ridiculous woman—is looking at me like I’m her personal fantasy in flesh and dark denim. Her hand’s on my cock, and my blood is roaring, hot and unsteady, in my ears.
And that fucking face mask?
Mostly gone now. What’s left is smeared in flaking green patches across her forehead. A streak trails across her cheek like war paint. She looks like a sexy Shrek that got attacked by a bottle of Pinot Noir and zero dignity.
I should be laughing. I almost do.
But instead, I just stare.
She suddenly giggles, unhinged and delighted, like she’s just discovered gravity.
“This… this must be what a wet dream’s sposed to be like,” she announces proudly, eyes still locked on my fly.
Then she leans in, mouth grazing my jaw. “I’d never say this shit to anyone. Never.”
