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“Who are you?” I ask. His eyes find the clock on my wall and sparkle. “Your ten o’clock. But if this guy is done, I’m happy to start early.”
“That’s a good girl, Doctor Moore. We can’t let our emotions control our actions, right?”
It’s unfortunate I’m kissing him back. Truly. My ethical dilemma of lusting after a patient is suddenly overshadowed by kissing a fucking murderer. Maybe this was his entire plan since we first met. Stalk me, kill my date, and then drag me back to the sex hovel he made for me. Honestly, no one’s ever made me anything before. That’s a level of commitment that’s as flattering as it is disturbing. I mean, depending on the state of said hovel. A hole in the ground would fucking suck.
He lets me rip away and looks down at me in surprise. I shouldn’t have moaned. How embarrassing. Kidnapping one-oh-one: don’t moan.
“She’s gone, come on.” Oh, yeah. Fuck. I open my mouth to scream, and his gloved hand covers my face.
“Leftovers are normal. Murder, however, isn’t,” I snap.
“Soren!” I yell. It’s dark, and his truck is black, but I see the red backup lights slowly moving further away as he takes his time in case of ice. I can’t let him leave without me. The idea of sitting on the couch while he’s murdering someone makes me feel anxious. I can’t do it. Am I going to stop him, though? I don’t know.
“Buckle up,” he says. Soren turns up Mariah Carey while I have a crisis of morality in the passenger seat.
“See, great time to show off,” I say. She looks absolutely exasperated. This is a lot more fun than the last kill. Everyone should drag their therapist along for murders.
One more night of play fucking and another set of twins will be on the way.
No breeding your therapist, you psychopath.
“My wife,”
There's so much pleasure in fucking my serial killer.
No protection again. Just Soren. When he falls out, his fingers curl inside me, holding his release in. “What are you doing?” “Breeding my therapist.”
