Page 284 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I take him into my mouth, smooth and unhurried, my lips wrapping around him as I slide him deep. The taste of him—saltand heat—fills my senses. I hum around him, and he groans like I’ve pulled the soul right out of him.

I don’t rush, setting the pace.

Slow, purposeful strokes. I let my tongue swirl and press. I suck him like it’s the most important thing I’ll do tonight—because maybe it is.

He holds on to the headrest behind him with everything he has.

When I pull back, breathless, I let my lips brush the tip again. My voice is silk and steel.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before.”

His chest rises in a sharp inhale, but he nods.

“Good boy.”

I take him again—deeper now. I want him to fall apart for me. Not because he’s lost control, but because I’m the one who has it.

His breathing is ragged now, head tipped back, throat exposed. I watch the way his hands clench, muscles flexing with the effort not to grab my hair, not to thrust into my mouth.

He’s desperate.

And I’m not done yet.

Still kneeling, I rise just enough to strip off my shirt. It sticks slightly to my back—blood, sweat, maybe memory—but I don’t pause. I let it fall to the floor without looking away from him.

His eyes drop immediately to my bare chest. He groans—low and guttural—like the sight of me actually hurts.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, slowly peeling them down over my hips, my thighs, until they puddle at my feet. I step out of them, unhurried, letting him take it all in.

Then I drop to my knees again.

Naked. Bare. Bloody. In control.

His cock twitches at the sight, and I stroke him once—just to remind him what he can’t have.

Yet.

I take him into my mouth again, sliding him deep while my hand trails down my own body—between my thighs, where I’m already soaked for him.

I moan around his length as my fingers find that perfect rhythm, soft circles that match the movement of my mouth. His whole body goes tense.

“Jesus, Poppy,” he grits out. “What are you doing to me?”

I pull off him with a slow, wet pop.

“Ruining you,” I whisper, lips brushing his tip.

He jerks—just barely—and I know he’s close.

I suck him again, slow and filthy, tongue swirling, fingers still working myself until I’m whimpering around him. My thighs tremble, slick pooling beneath me, the edge of an orgasm cutting through and breaking around me.

I work him hard, moaning through my own pleasure.

And just when he starts to lose it—hips lifting, jaw clenching?—

I stop.

I let him fall from my mouth, aching and wet, twitching between my fingers.

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