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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. What the hell am I thinking? 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.
“Doctor Moore, I’m going to have to insist that you marry me.” He pets the tree’s branches with gloved hands as my mouth drops open.
I could handle a bad date and a murder, apparently. But being proposed to while my perversion is revealed? Too much. God, please pick another soldier; this one has had enough battles for one night. Ugh.
