Page 175 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“What?” My gaze snaps to his face. “No, I⁠—”

“Yes,” he says. But it’s not his words that convince me to keep reading. It’s his hands on my hips, gentle but possessive. He wants me to read this. I think he needs me to.

It’s yours to use however you want. None of it makes up for what I did. Nothing can. But it’s the only way I know how to offer you the trust I took.

“Is this seriously”—I count quickly—“sixteen more pages of everything you did when you were in helpful stalker mode?”

“No,” he says. “It’s nine pages of the things I did when I was in helpful stalker mode and seven pages of everyone I’ve killed.”

My mouth drops, and finally, finally, he smiles.

“Which are you surprised by: how long the stalker list is or how short the kill list is?”

“I don’t know, both?” I laugh. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The list starts small. Salting my steps when there’s anything more than a five percent chance of snow in the forecast. Checking my tire pressure every month because my car’s make and model is notoriously finicky. Replacing expired creamer in my fridge and pouring the new one out to match the level of the old one.

Others are bigger.

“That was you who DoorDashed me orange juice when I was sick last year? I assumed it was Fi!”

He shrugs, but he smiles as he does, and I keep reading.

“All of that for an umbrella, Hugo? An umbrella?”

“Yep.”

“And the three dozen donuts that appear in my office break room on the second day of my period every month? That’s…” I gape at him. “I thought I was just imagining the coincidence.” I shake my head. “I should be creeped out, but I fucking love those period donuts.”

“Good.” He tugs me forward the tiniest bit, and that’s when I discover that watching me read the details of his stalker love language is a big turn-on for my boyfriend.

My lips curl as I wiggle against that nice, hard dick and keep reading.

“You unplugged my hair straightener on seven different occasions, yet you let me go to Overton’s with a dead jammer?”

He gives my ass a light swat. “Don’t even fucking joke.”

“Do that again,” I purr.

He does, and I arch into him, letting my hand trail down his chest. “I considered blinding Fi when she told me she’d seen you in sweatpants.” I squeeze his cock through the soft material.

His thumb finds my clit and rubs it over the layers of fabric. “No blinding your sister.”

“Fine.” I whimper and push myself up on my knees. “Pants off.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Don’t be Dr. Bore about this,” I say, shoving his shoulder and laughing as we struggle to free me from my leggings and him from his sweatpants because we’re not willing to lose physical contact with one another long enough to undress like normal people. But when you’re committed to a task, you make it work, and in the next breath, he’s pushing inside me.

“Keep reading,” he grits out.

“O-okay.” I force my eyes to focus on the pages in my hand. “I’m on your list of murders now, baby.”

His cock hardens even more, and he bites my shoulder, groaning, “God, yes.”

I plant a hand on his shoulder and ride my boyfriend while I read the full account of his crimes. Funny. Last time somebody’s secrets were aired in this relationship, they were mine.

He’s taking it a lot better.