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His words flood heat through my chest, and I shouldn’t be feeling this. Not about him. I close my eyes and try to pretend it’s someone else touching me, someone who isn’t a resurrected killer. But no matter who I picture, whatever handsome actor I try to craft out of the aether, he’s replaced with Sawyer Caldwell fifteen years ago, soaked in blood and wearing a mask.

“Stop,” I say weakly. Not so much to him. To myself. For liking this.

He just laughs. “Not until you come,” he says. “Though I’ll be honest, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from doing it again.”

I moan at that, my hips rolling against his hand of their own accord. I’ve never come twice in a row.

So why do I feel like Sawyer Caldwell might be the one to make me do it?

He shifts a little, slides his hand deeper into my panties. One of his fingers slips inside my pussy, and I gasp as he curls it against my inner wall. His thumb still works my clit.

This man knows what he’s doing.

“How…” I gasp the question out, my pleasure mounting. “How are… you really… really Sawyer Caldwell?”

In response, he slides another finger inside me. My legs fall open, trying to accommodate him. It’s like my body reacts to him one way, my brain another.

“I know you recognize me,” he murmurs, slowing his strokes. Teasing me.

He’s right. I do.

I squirm against him, pressing down on his hand. My jeans slide down my hips, revealing a stripe of my soft, pale flesh.

“You’re dead,” I whimper, burying my face against his chest. “I saw it. You died.”

“Told you. I can’t die.”

He does something, hooks his fingers against me in a particular way, and I let out a low, guttural scream, bucking my body against him. Sawyer chuckles.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s it. You’re close, aren’t you?”

“You’redead,” I say, as if repeating it will make it true.

“Then you’re about to cream yourself on a dead man’s fingers.” He leans down and brushes his lips against my ear. “I can’t tell you how many times I thought about this while I was recovering in the ground. I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you in those tight little shorts.” He’s working me faster now, and the heat is building. Still, I pull away a little to look up at him.

Why is Sawyer Caldwell so goddamn handsome?

I try to focus as best as I can. I can’t handle this nonsense about him being in the ground, how he healed. So I focus on the other thing thing he said. “How long…” I gasp. “How long were you watching me? At the camp?”

His fingers stroke rhythmically against me, and I match that rhythm with my hips until I’m doing most of the work, wantonly riding his hand.

“Long enough to see them treat you like shit,” he says. “Long enough to know you’d be worth killing for.”

And to my horror, that’s when my orgasm slams through me. I come at the idea of him killing my four tormenters. I gasp and thrash against him, half wishing I could stop the cascade so I can tell myself it isn’t the idea of death and murder that finally sent the pleasure surging up through my body.

Even though, if I’m being honest with myself, this isn’t the first time.

Sawyer doesn’t stop touching me, his fingers drawing out more and more contractions in the muscles of my pelvis. I slump against him, gasping for breath, until finally, the aftershocks fade. He stops his stroking, but doesn’t take his hand away from my pussy, just keeps it there, cupping me gently.

I don’t move. Ican’tmove. A sense of self-loathing creeps in. How could I come at that? At their deaths?

They tortured you.

They hated you.

They deserved it.

I take a deep, shuddery breath and shift against Sawyer. He makes no move to stop me until I try to sit up, at which point he releases my pussy and grips my hips with both hands, pressing me into the couch.