Page 175 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She’s all fire and trouble and chaos and heart.

She talks a hundred miles a minute, kicks ass in heels taller than most men’s egos, and still manages to look at the world like it’s not completely broken.

How has nobody kissed her?

Not even once?

She glares at me, red-faced and furious. "Can we not make this a thing?"

“Okay.” I lift my hands in surrender. Because despite every dumb, reckless part of me that wants to lean across the table and wreck her world, I know the line here.

For now.

We lapse into silence.

But something’s shifted.

Not broken. Not shattered.

Just tilted. Crooked in that dangerous way. Like my lips on hers are nowon the table.

The ride back starts quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses in too tight. That crawls under your skin and tightens the screws from the inside.

I keep my eyes on the road, pretending not to notice the way the air thickens between us. But I do.

I always do.

Poppy’s staring out the window, tapping restless patterns on her knee. Chewing her bottom lip like she’s trying to bite back every thought in her head.

And I’m not thinking about traffic anymore.

I’m thinking about her.

About how someone likehermade it this far without ever being seen.

It claws at me. Ugly and raw.

"I just…" I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be, "I can't understand that."

She stiffens. "Can we not do this again?"

I should let it go but I fucking can’t.

"If you’ve never been kissed," I push, quieter now, more lethal, "have you ever had a?—?"

"Don’t finish that," she snaps, her glare sharp enough to wound.

"That’s none of your business."

"I’ll take that as a no."

"It’s not that uncommon, you know," she fires off, like she’s reading from a brochure. "Over fifty percent of women report difficulty reaching climax during sex."

I scoff. "Yeah? Well, one hundred percent of my partners leave satisfied."

It's a dick thing to say. I know it the second it leaves my mouth.

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