Page 79 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Of course, most husbands aren’t covered head to toe in black with only a narrow strip of their eyes showing.

“Vacation timer.” He waves a gloved hand at the overhead lights, then at the light in the front entry. “Thankfully, Officer Timms left his blackout curtains shut.”

“I hate it,” I say, flinching like a vampire caught in the sun.

“It feels wrong, right?”

“Soooo wrong,” I say, and he laughs, the sound brushing over my skin like velvet, soft and almost familiar. It chases away that last of my unease at standing in this fully illuminated room because holy hell, that’s Gomez.

God, I wish I could see under his mask. I bet he’s grinning. I bet this man has the best grin.

He’s even bigger than I realized from our mostly dark encounters. His shoulders, chest, and thighs are thick with muscles under his all-black outfit, and his waist narrows to a perfect V-shape. How tacky would it be if I asked him to stand and give me a little twirl?

He’s eyeing me, too.

“Is that another bodysuit, Morticia?”

Subtext: How hard will it be to get it off of you?

“Nope,” I say in an equally rough voice, unzipping my hoodie to reveal the running tights and matching fitted shirt. “Trick or treat.”

“Fuckkk.” His eyes drag down my body, and he straightens when I take a step forward, then another one. The ankle resting on his knee drops to the floor.

Gotta say, so far, the plan is going well.

Killing Greg was supposed to be the reminder I needed to stay away from Hugo, but I lingered in his cozy kitchen on Tuesday with his unexpected declaration hanging in the air, drinking that earthy, woodfire tea I had to visit three shops to find. When I got home, I realized it was time for more extreme measures, like seducing this stranger who waits for my consent, worries about my safety, and gets turned on by my knife at his throat.

I mean, it’s not exactly a sacrifice. He even likes my legs.

So. Step one: gather whatever evidence I can find to exonerate Angie Timms in the murder of Paul Franklin.

Step two: scope out the best way for Lester Timms to have an “accident” in this grim bachelor pad he calls home.

Step three: sex up Gomez and kill my crush on my neighbor once and for all.

Felicity didn’t approve of step three. Felicity doesn’t even know about step three. I’m on my own here.

“Hi,” I breathe when I’ve closed the distance between us.

“Oh. Okay,” he says when I slide onto his lap. “Hello.”

His hands settle on my waist, but instead of gripping me hard and pulling me close, he rests them there gently. His eyes are blue, a startling blue, and I wet my dry lips.

“Did you miss me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

His answer’s a little more clipped than I expected, so I slide my knees along the outside of his thighs until I’m straddling him.

That does the trick.

“Morticia,” he groans, his hands finally tightening on me. His eyes crinkle at the corners, sending tiny shock waves through me. Shock waves, yes, but something warm and comfortable too. Seeing him in the light is messing with my head. It fuels my urgency to get him to respond, to make this thing between us real so I have something to hold on to.

I lean forward and drape my arms around his neck, pressing down on him as I whisper, “Can we take off the masks?”

He goes stiff underneath me. His cock, yes, but the rest of his body too.

It’s not the enthusiastic reaction I was hoping for.