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How embarrassing. Kidnapping one-oh-one: don’t moan.
“This is a good thing. How can they think this is fake when I’ve obviously just fucked your face.” I reach for the door, and she screams, clawing at my arms like a stray cat. She might yell something like “Don’t you dare open that door” and then “Let me go,” panic lacing her words.
She knows all my sides well enough to know when I’m actually excited—murder, chasing Sophie, and, yes, family visits. “Psychopath,” she silently mouths.
One more night of play fucking and another set of twins will be on the way.
My stomach feels elated, and I grimace. No breeding your therapist, you psychopath.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper. “I know.” Then he presses inside me. I claw at his back as he sinks into my body.
Soren groans against my throat as he comes. His grip on my hips is unforgiving as he spills inside me. “Oh no,” he rasps. “I’ve come in my therapist.”
Was he really telling the truth when he was balls deep? I didn’t realize men could do that. I’m starting to believe him, though.
There's so much pleasure in fucking my serial killer.
“I love you just the way you are, Soren. Perhaps my morals are fucked, but that’s what makes us work.”
Serial killer one-oh-one, don’t cry when your therapist makes you feel like a puddle of goo. That would be embarrassing.
