“Yes.”
I push her chin up gently, forcing her to look at me, ensuring there is nowhere else for her to hide. No logic to retreat to.
“Do you want this Madeline?”
For the first time since we met, I can’t quite read her expression. The shadows are playing tricks on me. She might punch me in my face. Or she might… I stop the thought there.
She doesn’t answer. And I won’t force her. Not now. I want her to choose this ruin.
Instead, I straighten slowly, leaving her exactly where she is. Still kneeling. My hands move to the belt of my pants, the leather cracking in the silence. I see the exact moment realization hits her. Her eyes follow every movement. Curious. Hesitant. Hungry.
I push the zipper down. Then the waistband. The fabric slides lower over my hips. The look in her eyes shifts again, disbelief warring with a fascination she can't suppress. Like she still doesn’t believe I’ll actually do it. Right here. In her sanctuary of death.
My hand brushes against the fabric of my boxers. I grip myself through it, a low groan escaping my throat as I watch her reaction. Her big, icy blue eyes drop to my lap. She looks almost hypnotized, her lips parting just enough for me to hear her shallow breaths.
She could leave. Right now. She could stand up, walk out of those doors, and never look back.
Instead she stays.
And that alone makes me fucking harder than any kill ever has. My head falls back as I drag my hand slowly over the fabric, my thumb tracing the length of me while I keep my eyes locked on hers.
“Is my little pathologist getting wet watching the city’s most wanted killer touch himself in front of her?”
I murmur, my voice dripping with a dark, predatory lust.
“Tell me, Mali… do you want to see how this story ends?”
Her posture shifts slightly. Not away. Just enough to ease the tension building in her body. Not uncomfortable. Interested.Dirty girl.
A crooked smile pulls at my mouth. My hips move slowly into my hand. She bites her lower lip slightly, never taking her eyes off me. She's trying to see how much I'll restrain myself. I see the way she's trying to push the smile away, and my patience snaps.
My hand shoots forward, fingers tangling roughly in her hair, forcing her head back to meet my gaze.
“You’re fucking killing me with that look,” I groan, the sound torn from the deepest part of my chest.
“If you want something…”
I lean closer, my lips brushing against hers.
“Take it.”
My fingers tighten in her hair as I watch her. Almost every corpse in here is a piece of my work. Work that she studied. I see the moment the war inside her reaches its breaking point. And now, the artist and the critic are finally done talking.
Desire. Pure, dark, and irreversible.
Her gaze drops slowly once again. Not in submission. Decision. Her hand shifts slightly against her thighs, fingers curling before she slowly lifts one of them. For a second she hesitates, her hand hovering in the frigid air like she’s giving herself one last chance to stop.
Then her eyes flick back up to mine, burning with a mix of hatred and hunger.
“You’re a fucking sociopath,” she whispers.
The corner of my mouth pulls into a dangerous smile. The way she said it… so fucking intimate. I would let this woman call me the worst names in existence, and I would still smile about it like a damn maniac.
“I’ve been called worse.”
Her hand moves. Slowly. Carefully. Testing the air like she still doesn’t quite believe this is happening. But she doesn’t stop. And the moment her fingers free me from my boxers, the sensation is so sharp it's almost painful. My head drops back with a low, ragged breath.
“Fuck….”
