Thankfully, I had a book on my locker that I could reach without disturbing him.
Aiden’s head is practically stuck to my chest, I can feel the sweat dampening my shirt as we lie, tangled together. It’s strange; this is the most intimate that I’ve ever been with a man, and we haven’t even had sex yet.
“Manson fan?” He mumbles, his head wiggling slightly as he tries to get comfortable. I chuckle softly, running my fingers through his damp hair.
“That’s a hard no. I don’t know why they stick him on these books. He was a cult leader, not a murderer. Bundy would be more appropriate.”
Aiden shifts his weight, his breath warm against my neck. “People did die because of him, bug.”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t the one holding the knife. Those other arseholes should be renowned for the crimes; all Manson didwas give the word.”
“And that’s not enough?”
“If you told me to jump from a bridge or have barnyard sex with a goat, would you be responsible for my actions?”
Aiden laughs, his voice vibrating against my skin. “Ok, ok, I get your point. Manson shouldn’t be glorified for the actions of others.”
“Aqua Tofana,” I say, in my best Bailey Sarian voice.
Aiden raises his perspiring head from my chest, a damp smacking sound accompanies his movement. “Aqua what?”
“Aqua Tofana,” I repeat with the same dramatic flair. “A 17th-century poison made famous by the infamous Italian woman Giulia Tofana. It was a colourless and tasteless poison that she sold to women seeking to escape abusive marriages.”
“You really know your shit when it comes to serial killers.”
“What can I say?” I shrug with a smirk. “I have a morbid fascination with true crime and the dark side of history.”
Aiden stretches his arms above his head, a tired smile playing on his lips. “That’s why you got me.”
“You’re a serial killer now?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
Aiden chuckles, pulls the book from my hands, and tosses it over his shoulder. “The worst kind, baby.”
“Worse than Aqua Tafana?” Sliding my hands around his neck, I pull him closer.
“Poison is a woman’s weapon, bug. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.” Aiden’s eyes gleam mischievously as he leans in, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I prefer a more personal touch, you know? Something that leaves a lasting impression.”
How can he disturb me and turn me feral with just a few words?
“So what’s your M.O.?” I grin against his lips.
“Right now,” he sits up and pulls me with him. “It’s getting us into a shower. Then food.”
“No BTK reenactments?”
He grins at me, my legs wrapped around his waist as he carries me towards the bathroom. “Only if you ask me nicely.”
I don’t have a new build like Aiden, or a particularly lavish one at that. My house was built in the 1980s; the rooms are small, and the layout is outdated. But it’s mine. It’s home, and I’m halfway through its transformation into making it feel like my own.
I don’t have an en-suite, so Aiden is forced to carry me through my narrow landing and into my teeny-tiny (compared to his en-suite) bathroom with a laugh. It would have been cuter if I were shorter. My legs dangle awkwardly, catching the door frame as he navigates through.
He reaches into the shower, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature so he doesn’t singe his pubes or freeze his balls off. “Right, bug,” he spins to me, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “Strip.”
I don’t know why, but I freeze, standing motionless in response to his command.
“You ok, bug?” Aiden asks with a concerned tone, his grin fading slightly. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch my arm.
A million thoughts fly through my head as his hand makes contact with my skin.
