Page 102 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
“I thought you were a vampire, that you wanted to drink me, and… I don’t know… devour my soul. But it wasn’t like that. Was it?”
His eyes crinkle with amusement, a look I’ve come to know well. If he has a response, I never hear it.
His mouth presses to my core as an answer instead, and he does devour me, lapping up the evidence of my arousal as if it’s holy nectar. He moans and hums, drinking me up with greed.
My eyes widen and then soften, finally losing my words to pleasure. I lose track of how long he stays there, tongue gliding over me, drinking me the way his eyes promised to the first day we met.
My fingers curl into his hair. I’m moments from release when he pulls away. He takes my hand in his, unfurling it. His lips are shining and parted, soft pants falling from them as he rises.
My face is contorted and confused when his alert gazemeets my darkened eyes. I am drunk and dizzy with lust. He pins my wrist over my head. His forehead presses against mine.
“Did you think I would give up so easily?” he croons, kissing my lips with a tenderness that contrasts the strong grip on my wrist.
“I had hoped.” I’m empty, clenching around nothing, my hips rocking into his with desperation.
“You know what you need to do,” he murmurs, trailing wet kisses down my jaw.
His fingers slip between my legs, teasing me in small circles—but never long enough.
“Please.” My voice shakes.
He shudders, fingers pressing harder against me. “Please, what?”
“Fuck me!” My voice rises with desperation, whimpering the words out. “Please, fuck me. Devour me. Do something. Anything. Please.”
He grunts, rocking his hips into mine, his fingers still moving against me. “I thought you would never ask.”
“Please,” I repeat, whining embarrassingly loud.
I don’t need to continue begging, but I do. The word falls from my lips on repeat. It may be our only night together, and I want him to know how much I need him.
His touch leaves, releasing my wrist, his hands finding my hips. In a swift motion, he turns me around and pushes his boxers to the floor. I arch my back, waiting to feel him.
“I knew you would be good for me,” he whispers, his breath against my cheek as he settles behind me. His length presses against my entrance.
My mouth parts, releasing a desperate moan without a care.
He is all I can think of, all I can focus on, all I need.
“Please.” It’s the only wordmy mouth can form.
The rest of my vocabulary is gone, replaced with a desire for him.
Caldwell pets my hair in soft motions as he finally pushes into me, groaning into my ear. He takes me slowly, and I clench around him, desperate for more.
His hand slides to my front, rolling and pressing against my clit as he thrusts into me. Pressure builds in my body, our words melting away as, at last, he claims me as his.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s fitting—and proof I’m cursed—that my first friend at Strode is the killer. Looking back, it makes too much sense. The way she singled me out in the beginning, the way she tried to get me alone for dinner in the end… and that she went missing moments at the time of the final death.
We arrive at Strode the next morning. It’s too early for classes or breakfast. By the grace of whatever screwed-up God—or demon—is in charge, we made it inside without being spotted.
How long it takes before Professor Cruz realizes we’re gone is another story.
“She’s in there,” Margaux says, with her ear pressed to the wall of our dormitory.
The killer doesn’t know it yet, but we have her exactly where we want her. Margaux is the only one with subtle enough senses to hear Amelia shuffling around her bedroom.
