Page 228 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She gasps, and my heart lurches.

I pull back an inch—just to see her.

Make sure she’s real.

But that awe in her gaze strips me bare, and I’m gone.

I kiss her harder.

No hesitation. No patience.

The second kiss is wild. Hungry. Starving.

She moans, and I lick into her, swallowing every broken, needy sound.

She fists my shirt, dragging me closer.

My hands roam—her jaw, her hair, the slope of her waist—burning her into me.

I groan when she tugs my hair.

She kisses me back just as desperately.

Open-mouthed. Messy. Glorious.

She shifts—swings one leg over my lap, straddling me.

Like she was made to fit right here, thighs tight around my hips.

And fuck, she’s grinding against me.

Slow at first—but the friction lights me up.

I’m hard. Painfully.

Her hips roll just right, and I feel how soaked she is through those thin fucking leggings.

It’s a miracle I don’t come.

I drop my forehead to hers—both of us panting—and slide my hands down to cup her ass, anchoring her to me.

She shudders when I grind again.

I kiss her throat, her jaw, her racing pulse.

"Tell me," I rasp, voice shredded. "Tell me you want this, Lollipop."

Tell me I’m not dreaming.

Tell me you’re mine.

She presses tighter to me, lips brushing my ear.

"Yes," she gasps. "God, yes."

And that’s it.

The last fucking thread holding me together.

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