CHAPTER 30
“Nice boys don’t kill like that.”
“Oh yes they fucking do.”
—Not Bridget Jones’s Diary
It’s exactly like I feared.
He kisses me in a way that makes me forget we’re being hunted down by a complete psychopath.
He pulls me into his body so tightly the cut on my arm stings as it splits back open, but even then I push closer.
The pressure of his mouth against mine blurs whether we’ve lost ten or eleven people so far.
And when he uses his teeth to pull at my bottom lip, I can convince myself we’re perfectly safe in this janitor’s closet with only one way out and one lock between us and the killer outside.
I grasp the nape of his neck with my fingers when he steps forward and presses my back into the wall.
One of his hands drops to my ass, and when he lifts me up I shift my knees out, his thigh sliding between my own.
He uses his grip to pull me firmly against it and the pressure is…
Oh. It’s good. It’s very, very good. Well done, Wes.
Pulling my mouth from his, I move my palms around to cup his jaw, keeping his lips a blade’s width from mine when I whisper, “I don’t think we should—”
“We shouldn’t, but—” he murmurs, and when I open my eyes to meet his hooded gaze, it doesn’t matter how that sentence is going to end.
“We shouldn’t, but—” is all I need to hear.
“We shouldn’t, but—” is a very convincing argument.
“I just—” Wes drops his face into my neck, his mouth hovering at my throat, air pulling away from my skin before he releases it with a shudder. The sound makes me tighten my thighs around his and a sharp, satisfying pulse takes me by surprise. It’s just a preview, though. A teaser.
“I need to know what you look like when you—” He raises his head again and the look on his face, it’s—“If I might di—”
He shakes that thought away. “I need to know—” It’s like there are too many ends to that sentence and not enough time for him to figure out which one is going to accurately convey why we’re going to do this.
So when he can’t seem to settle on one, he just breathes out an affected, extended, “Jamie.”
I am this close to going against the cardinal rule of horror films and having sex with this man I just met, because after all the debilitating fear, I just want a distraction, a release, an escape.
I just want Wes.
He waits for my answer before trying to kiss me again—another green flag if we get out of this—his eyes locked on my mouth, his breath hitting my face in hot pants.
When his gaze lifts to meet mine again, his fingers grazing the back of my neck as his hand unfurls, I find myself nodding, pulling him closer, leaning in to close the distance.
“I want to.” I finally understand why so many of those horny teens met their demise to get some action. “Wes, I want you t—”
He pulls my mouth back onto his and this kiss is brutal.
So deep and raw and devastating it should be a crime.
The dichotomy of the blunt clutch and pull of his teeth on my lip and the deep, soothing sweep of his tongue against my own isn’t lost on me, but it is addictive.
It’s inciting. It causes me to drop my hands to where his shirt is tucked into his pants and pull, ignoring the tacky parts of the material where the bloodstains haven’t fully dried.
It makes him drag his hand down from my ass to run back up the front of my thigh, brushing up the hem of my dress and disappearing under it to grab my hip bone as I move against him, seeking more pressure, more heat, more of the heart-pounding effect that finally isn’t from fear.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline, my body trying to counteract the cortisol with a hit of dopamine or oxytocin, but I can’t find a good enough reason to stop myself from smoothing my hands underneath his shirt as soon as it’s free from his waistband, desperate to feel his skin against my palms if this is the only chance we’ll get.
“That’s it…” Wes says when his mouth disconnects from mine on an upward sweep, his grip tightening and guiding my movements atop his thigh. His voice is deep, breathless, rougher than the first cut of a student film. “That’s it, Jamie. Show me what I’ve got to look forward to.”
I rock against him. Arching, rolling, grinding.
Over and over, until the heat in my belly competes with the warmth in my cheeks and the flush blooming across my chest. Up, in, down, circle, again.
With a pleased grunt, his lips descend onto mine like they don’t have anywhere else to be.
Like the odds aren’t stacked against us.
Like we’re in an alternate timeline and he has me on his bed in his apartment instead of next to a shelf of cleaning supplies in a windowless room.
I trail my fingers up his abs, his ribs, around to his back.
His skin is just as warm as mine, hot against my hands, and it’s smooth and hard, and the more of his body I touch the more I want to uncover.
Sliding one hand back around to his stomach, I trace my fingers down the trail of hair that starts beneath his belly button, over the cold buckle of his belt, until I palm the front of his pants, right where he’s pressing into my thigh.
He stifles a choked groan against my mouth when I work the pressure of my hand against him, but then his lips pause, and for a short, terrifying moment I think he may have heard something or—maybe even worse—he’s reconsidering this, reconsidering whether I’m worth any of the trouble we’ve gotten into tonight.
Before I can spiral, he starts to work his mouth against mine again, releasing his grip on my neck and pulling my hand away before I can do anything too skillful.
When he pins it over my head in a swift move, that warmth, the one flowing through my body, melting and pooling all the way down to my core… Yeah, it kicks up a notch from that. I pull back just a little, his lips still grazing mine, and glance up to where he’s holding my wrist against the wall.
“Wes?” His name falls out of my mouth on a sigh, sliding between our lips, and for a second I think he might rethink restraining my arm.
We’ve taken the risk, but so far I’m the only one reaping the reward.
But then he pulls me tighter against him, his thumb starts to circle on top of my hip bone, and my eyelids flutter.
“We don’t have much time.”
He mutters it so quietly I can’t figure out whether he’s saying it for my benefit or his. His lips move from mine to press against the thrumming pulse in my neck. The feel of his tongue on my skin makes my breath hitch.
“Christ, I want to, Jamie. I want to, but one of us needs to keep our wits.” His voice vibrates against my throat, and I nod, agree mindlessly, because my wits are anywhere but here. “But just wait till I get you out of here. Just wait. I’ll do so much better than this.”
It’s a promise. One that draws a shaky exhale from my throat and makes me grip the fingers of my free hand into the muscles of his back because it’s already so good.
I’m pretty sure he can tell. When his hand slides from my hip to the edge of my underwear, dips between the material and my skin, his fingertips grazing lower until they slide easily, slickly, against me, the heavy exhale near my ear is confirmation enough that he can tell.
He can tell and he’s pleased about it, too.
My head falls back against the wall as he works his fingers against me.
Everything is reduced to feeling—friction, simmering pleasure, and feverish heat.
It’s not a race, he’s not rushing, but there’s an urgency to both our movements.
It’s the only indication of a distant awareness of anything outside of this room.
He uses his thigh to keep the heel of his hand tight against my clit and it draws a moan from my throat.
One that’s cut off just as quickly. Not by any self-control on my part.
That’s long gone. My eyes snap open, my wrist drops limply back to my side, and I lower my gaze to see his palm clamped over my mouth. Oh, shit…
That’s new.
I shouldn’t like it. The firm pressure of his fingers gripped into my cheek shouldn’t make me moan again.
It shouldn’t act like a cheat code, unlocking a secret level that leads straight to where he’s working his hand against me, and I definitely shouldn’t like it when he leans back and says, “Shhh.” My heart smacks rapidly beneath my chest as our eyes lock.
He has the gall to smirk darkly. “Don’t give us away when my hands are too busy to reach for a weapon. ”
My legs tremble around his, vision blurring from the sensations he’s stirring up with the motions of his fingers.
He watches my face for how I react to every stroke and flick and press, and through my own haze I can decipher that his gaze is dark, desirous.
I’m at his mercy, but there’s no place I’d rather be.
“Is this okay?” he asks, and I don’t know what he’s asking about specifically, but I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.
Nerve endings that have lain dormant pulse, and ache, and prepare for release.
Everything he’s doing feels so good, so I nod beneath his palm, sliding both hands underneath his shirt to grip the small of his back and move with him, grateful for the warmth and soft pressure of his fingers against my lips.