Page 141 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I bend my knees past their limits to haul him so tight against me that he can’t escape when I guide his hand under the split in my towel.

“They’re all you. They’re all Hugo. And I want all of you.”

I’ve never seen a man grin while groaning before, but Hugo-Gomez-Dr. Bore pulls it off as he slides his fingers through my slick pussy. I lean back to catch every possible angle of his almost pained expression in the mirrors. All of these men layered on top of each other inside the one person I can’t live without.

The fire’s back in his eyes when they lock on mine and he brushes the tips of his fingers over my clit, sending a jolt through me. Then he yanks his fingers away, and I follow his concerned gaze to the cut on my arm, which is bleeding again.

Before I can react, he slides open a drawer in the vanity and pulls out Steri-Strips, followed by a familiar package.

“You kept it?” I ask hoarsely, blinking down at the pink and yellow and green conversation hearts on the wrapper.

He deftly applies the Steri-Strips, then covers them with my bandage.

“I thought Morticia might need patching up someday,” he says, tossing the wrappers into the trash can next to the sink.

My finger’s tracing the printed messages—BE MINE, SOUL MATE, LOVE ME—when he swings me into his arms.

“Okay. Let’s get you that post-kill sex you’re begging for.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Hugo

“Ineed you to know this isn’t your reward for not being a total creep,” Rue says as we leave the bathroom with her in my arms. “This is my reward for good judgment.”

“You sure?” I set her down in the center of the mattress. “Because you’re in my bed wearing nothing but a towel, which is something that I, personally, am choosing to celebrate.”

She bites her lip as she drags her gaze over my body. “Very much same, although I’m wishing your towels weren’t supersized.”

The white terrycloth knotted at my waist hits just above my knees, and I add tiny towels to my mental shopping list as I usher Cosmo toward the door.

“Give us an hour, buddy,” I say, ignoring his longing look at the warm spot on the bed where he’d been sleeping.

“Only an hour?” Rue pouts.

“Give us five hours, buddy.”

I scoot his furry butt out the door and listen until I hear the tippy-tap of his nails down the stairs and into the living room, where he dragged his bed next to the heating vent.

Once he’s sorted, I shut the door and turn to find Rue smoothing her hand back and forth across the comforter that, like the sheets and pillows, is new, fresh, and the same white as the ones she coated in blood.

“I keep duplicates,” I say in answer to her unspoken question. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve needed to get rid of bloody fabric.”

“I’m shocked,” she says drily. “But it’s all handled?”

“Yep. Clothes, bedding, car. Oh, and your sister says, quote, ‘I’ll kill her myself if she does this again.’” I crawl onto the bed next to her and have to take a second to breathe through the realization that I am in bed next to Rue Bellamy, especially when she laughs, relaxed and warm and sounding more like herself than she has all night.

“I’d probably let her.” She squints at me in thought. “Speaking of allowing murders to happen, why don’t you have any home security? You should’ve known the instant I broke your backdoor window to get into your place tonight.”

I look at the cheerful bandage on her arm, aghast. “Is that how you cut yourself?”

She waves off my question. “I was desperate to feel safe and didn’t want to bother picking the lock, Mr. I-Have-Multiple-Fake-Identities-But-No-Motion-Sensors.”

“You cut yourself on my fucking window? I did this?” I’m too horrified to savor the idea that Rue thinks of me as safety.

She rolls her eyes. “Your window did this, and answer my question.”

“I protect the things that are worth protecting.”