Page 143 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Her expression softens. “Yes. I do.”

Her wet hair is a tangle of old gold on the pillow behind her, and I exhale hard and press my forehead against hers, overwhelmed by this single, perfect moment, this thing I never thought I could have. She trusts me. She wants me, all of me.

Fuck, I’m going to make her come so many times tonight.

I get to work arranging her for minimal risk to her damaged parts. She’s already on her back in the middle of the bed, which is where I want her, although she gives an annoyed grumble when I ease the pillow out from under her head, fold it in half, and slide it back so she’s angled to watch everything I’ll be doing to her without straining her bruised neck. Next I fold the towel that had been around my waist and tuck it under her hips so they’re slightly elevated.

“Good?” I ask.

“Mmm-hmm,” she replies, her hungry gaze fixed on my cock.

“Be patient.” The warning’s as much for me as it is for her, but as I bend to kiss her, the uncertainty in her eyes stops my descent toward her mouth.

Oh, god. She’s asking for permission to move enough to kiss me.

It’s so hot I have to run through the behavioral indicators of Stendhal syndrome to keep from shredding the rules I just established and giving her the aggressive fuck she’s been begging for.

“You can use your mouth, sweetheart.” I push the strain from my voice to speak to her in the controlled way I did before. “Give me your lips and tongue.”

Her eyes light up, and I run through the diagnostic criteria of folie à deux as my mouth lands on hers. But no list of rare mental disorders can keep my cock from hardening even more when she gives me her lips and her fucking tongue as the rest of her stays completely still.

We’re both breathing hard when we separate, and I torture us both by dragging my fingers to the tucked edge of her towel and taking my time tugging it free. She moans when cool air finally caresses her skin, and at the sight of those pretty pink nipples, I have to clench my fists against my thighs until I’m able to speak calmly again.

“I’ve been dreaming about putting my mouth on your breasts since the day you moved in,” I tell her in my Dr.-Mohr-is-running-this-session voice.

“Then do it,” she pleads, reaching for my hands. I pull away immediately and arch my brows until she falls back to the pillow with a muttered curse, at which point I position her arms so they’re tucked next to her body. Once her palms are flat on the mattress, I duck my head and swirl my tongue over her left nipple, keeping my eyes on her face as I take the little bud between my teeth and bite down. Her lips part on a gasp, but she stays where I put her.

“Good girl.” I move to her other nipple, sucking it into my mouth. A whimper builds in her throat, and I grip her fingers and curl them into the comforter. “Hang onto this. Just don’t jostle your cut.”

Her nails bite into the white fabric as I kiss my way down her body, savoring her satiny skin and the definition underneath.

“Your legs, fuck.” I gently bite the top of her thigh.

“Greg didn’t like how muscular they are.” Her eyes are closed, her voice tight, so I increase the pressure of the bite until they fly back open. “Hey!”

“Then Greg was stupid and evil, and I’m even more glad you killed him. Your legs are sexy as fuck.” I kiss the faint teeth marks. “You’re a fighter, Rue. I love these quads and hammies. They keep you safe. They bring you home to me.”

“Hammies.” She tries to roll her eyes, but pleasure hitches a ride with her scoff. “I was right about you the night Morticia met Gomez. You’re a jock. I’m dating a jock.”

I still. “You’re what?”

She covers her face with her hands. “God. I didn’t mean…”

I tsk at her and move her hands back into place at her sides, then retreat to the foot of the bed. It’s supposed to be the penalty for her movement, but it’s pure reward for me because from down here, I can look my fill.

More importantly, she fucking lets me.

Her eyes are locked on mine, her breath coming in pants and her cheeks glowing pink. Her nipples are hard little points, and her pussy…

I groan and fall forward, my hands wrapping around her inner thighs so I can push them apart, taking care not to jostle her knees or ankle.

“Date me.” I settle my shoulders into the space I’ve created. “Be my girlfriend. Be my murder wife.” I run my nose along the crease of her inner thigh, breathing her in. “Hell, be my actual wife.”

I close my eyes and drag my tongue up her slit, a sound catching at the back of my throat when I find her even wetter than she was at the vanity.

“You want me,” I say thickly. “Jesus Christ.”

The Rue under my tongue isn’t the sweet-tasting woman I’ve imagined this whole time. Those fantasies kept my right hand busy and my balls drained when I stole whatever bits of her I could on my own in the dark. But they’re nothing compared to the actual taste of her. Her pussy is sweet—of course it is, it’s Rue—but it’s also musky and dark and slippery. Oh my god, so slippery. I could slide my cock into her with no resistance at all.