Page 13 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“What, no more quips, Mr. Said-The-Word-Murder-First?” She rubs her palm in a tight circle over the tip of my dick, and I wonder if she can feel the precum that’s collected there.

“Jesus. Keep doing that,” I bite out. In the back of my mind, I know I should care more about how reckless this is, but I don’t. I do not care. I want to bare my soul to this woman, confess every dark thing I’ve ever done through gritted teeth because of how fucking good her touch feels.

“Excellent.” She uses those clever fingers to pop the button of my pants and slip past the layers of fabric until she can grip me fully, at which point my whole world blinks offline. Then she rubs her thumb along my slit and pulls my soul back into my body.

Fuck. I might lose this competition after all.

I might be okay with that.

“Just like that, Morticia.” I shift back to give her more room as she spreads my precum down my shaft.

She tilts her head to the side but doesn’t slow her fingers. “Morticia?”

“Addams,” I say thickly.

“Morticia? Not Wednesday?” Another squeeze.

“Fuck no. Wednesday’s a child. Morticia’s a woman.”

She chuffs a tiny laugh. “And I suppose that makes you Gomez?”

“Call me anything you want,” I say as I thrust into her hand. “Just don’t stop.”

She mutters a curse and grips me even tighter, and this might just be the hottest encounter of my life. I’ve had plenty of sex, plenty of good sex, some of it to burn off energy after a kill, all of it with strangers in bars or on the apps, none of it touched by darkness.

But my Morticia’s no innocent, and I don’t have to hold back. The thought has me pulling up my mask just far enough to sink my teeth into the soft patch of skin above the neck of her hoodie.

She jolts, squeezing me even harder before rolling her hips against my fingers. “No fair,” she whimpers.

“Nothing fair about it.” I bite her again and turn my wrist so she can rub her clit against the hard knuckle of my thumb. “This is about winning.”

“And about Marshall losing.” She punctuates her words with a back-and-forth slide of her clit over my hand.

I snort at her murder-focused response and turn my bite into a suck. She pumps me harder in response.

“Jesus, how are your fingers so strong?” I say on a tortured exhale.

“And how is your tongue so hot?” She gasp-laughs and shakes her head. “I mean, duh, all tongues are hot.” She rocks against me, her husky voice turning faraway and dreamy. “In my last year of college, a guy assaulted my sorority sister. Bragged about it. Star athlete thought he could get away with anything. So I cut out his tongue.”

“Fuck.” My cock starts to leak at the proof that she’s as twisted as I am, and I respond by licking my way across her nape to bite the other side of her neck.

“I thought about giving it to her as a present,” she says, gasping and grinding, “but thankfully remembered, you know, manners. So I settled for tossing it into the lake near campus with the rest of his parts.”

Moisture dampens my glove as her pussy throbs, and are you fucking kidding me? Talking about one of her past murders turns her on even more, which turns me on even more. I may never let her leave this closet.

“His tongue was hot when I pulled it out of his head,” she gasps, squeezing me tight as I circle my fingers over her clit, “but yours is h—oh fuck—hotter. Also, I think I prefer you alive and talking.”

Even though I’m a breath away from tipping her over onto this worn-down carpet so I can bury myself into whatever part of her she’ll allow, I bark a laugh.

“You think?”

“Jury’s still out.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” I murmur. “Give me a head start at least.” Now she’s the one laughing. Laughing as she jacks me off while riding my hand—drenching my hand—in a serial arsonist’s house.

Fuck it. I have to touch her. As lightweight as my gloves are, there’s still too much material between us. With her back to my front and both of us still facing the wall, I press my gloved fingers against her mouth through her mask.

“Take it off,” I growl.