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“Apparently.” She picks up the paper again and starts reading, “‘Police have identified what they believe is the sixth victim of the brutal killer coinedThe Forsyth Carver.The nickname was earned because of the nature of the murders, where the victims were methodically tortured with a sharp blade. A source told the Gazette that the most recent body was discovered along a hiking path on the edge of the University, near the river. At the time of this report, the police have no suspects, suggesting that students take caution and travel together’.”

“Fuck, that’s dark.” I place a hand on her back, forcing her to still. Reading gets her all worked up. “But I can’t say I’m surprised. Forsyth seems like fertile ground for a homegrown killer.”

“You know, I bet my father knew about it.” She props herself on one elbow, giving me a flash of side-tit. Furrowing her forehead, she adds, “And your dad.”

I grunt because, yeah, probably.

“I mean, who’s to say one of them wasn’t the killer?” she continues, her mind exploding with theories. “We know they’re both sociopaths.”

“Add in Saul, Rufus, and Daniel…” I place a hand on her side, fingers grazing the underneath of her boob, and push her backover so I can add the final star. “You’ve got enough for a Royal line-up.”

“Yeah, but none of them seem like the type to move around in secret,” she admits. “Those bastards like to do their torturing and murdering in the wide open.”

“Well, did they ever solve it?” I ask, capping my pen and rising to my knees to get a good look at my work.

“I haven’t gotten that far yet.” She reaches for another newspaper from the stack beside the bed, but I lean forward, grabbing her wrist. “Hey!”

“Sorry, Vin, but we can follow up on your serial killer later.” I fight past the lingering pain in my gut and press a kiss to her shoulder, fingers grazing over the fresh ink. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

Her breath hitches when I lightly touch her sides. Vinny gets me, but she’ll never understand what it’s like to connect my art with her body. She turns every stroke into a living creature. Sure, the same could be said about all the tattoos I’ve inked on people, but she’s the only woman who carries my marks all over her body, permanent and temporary.

She’s my muse.

Vinny shifts, looking over her shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I can cough without wanting to cry.”

“That’s progress.” Her pink lips lift into a smile. Fuck, I just want to kiss her. Well, notjustkiss her. I want to bury my cock deep inside her tight little pussy and spend the rest of our time here in fucked out bliss. If she has the same idea, she rejects it, and says, “I should probably check your wound and change the bandage.”

She stands, pulling down the thin tank. Deny me all she wants, my girl is horny. Her nipples poke against the cotton, dark shadows taunting me and I know if I touch her between herlegs, she’ll be wet. I watch as she walks over to the bathroom, the booty shorts inching up with every move.Thank you, Jade.She returns with the first-aid kit.

“Lean back,” she says, nodding at the headboard. Every movement still hurts, but I follow directions. Once settled, she glances down at my cock, tenting in my pants. “Seriously?”

“It’s been two days, babe, and I can see your nipples and your shorts keep riding up your ass. This boner is totally your fault.” Two strokes is all it’d take, and I’d come hard and quick.

“It’s not my fault Jade sent over these clothes. They’re cute, and I appreciate it, but she clearly underestimates my size.” She tugs at the tank, trying to cover her belly, but all it does is make her tits spill out the top.

“There are ways we can fix the boner, you know, other than changing clothes,” I give my cock a good squeeze, “which wouldn’t make one bit of difference.”

“This isn’t just a cockblock,” she informs me. “As much as I’ve improved with my nursing duties, I don’t want to redo Pauly’s stitches.”

I look down at them. “They’re tight, right?”

“He’s got a shockingly steady hand.”

I take her hand and rest it on my cock. “Your hand feels pretty steady to me.” She squeezes the hard length before pulling away and rolling her eyes.

“Really, though,” I tell her, “you’re getting good at this. Better than what I had growing up at least.”

“Who cleaned you up then?” She wipes down the stitches with antiseptic. “

I shrug. “Mostly nannies, I guess. I had this one, Justyna, who was around during the skateboard years, when I came home busted up almost every day.”

“Justyna is a pretty name.”

“She was from Greece. She was super into holistic shit, making her own medicines and salves with herbs and plants. She had a whole section in the greenhouse for it.” I wrinkle my nose. “I swear I smelled like compost for a year. Total game killer.”

“I’m sure,” she says, rolling her eyes, before dropping her gaze to focus on changing my bandage. “Was she nice?”