Page 15 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Edgar

“I’m sorry for the short notice,” she says, peeling off her gloves with a sigh. “It was only date two. I might’ve jumped the gun.”

Literally. Metaphorically. Spiritually. It tracks.

I untie my apron and linger a beat too long in her orbit. “You’ve got blood on your clothes. I can burn them too. No DNA, no risk.”

I sound casual. Clinical. I am neither.

It’s astonishing she hasn’t been caught. She’s so brazen, it borders on mythic. Like she’s got a guardian crime scene angel, or just incredible tits and an ungodly amount of bleach.

“God, you’re right,” she says, and then just tugs her shirt over her head.

Christ.

“I usually just bleach them and donate to Goodwill,” she adds like this is normal behavior.

She’s… beautiful’s too soft a word. She’s feral. A vision in white lace and arterial red. Her nipples peak through delicate fabric and I look away before I do something stupid. Or obvious. Or worshipful.

“There’s blood on my jeans,” she says, frowning down at them. “That grabby prick. And they don’t even make this cut anymore.”

She shimmies out of them with a little wiggle, careless and glorious, like she’s done it a thousand times for strangers, except I’m not a stranger.

At least my cock thinks I’m not a stranger. It responds accordingly.

It’s the wiggle. Or the hips I could press my hands into until I leave bruises in the shape of want. Or maybe it’s the way she talks about murder like it’s a household chore, laundry or dusting.

I could fall for her. Or fuck her in the ashes of her ex. Or both. Probably both.

“Edgar?” she asks, lips quirking. “You with me?”

Not remotely. But I nod.

I take the jeans from her outstretched hand. “Of course. As soon as you find something perfect, some nitwit in marketing axes the whole line.”

My fingers graze hers. I pretend not to notice.

She doesn’t recoil.

I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve never wanted to be a cleaner for anyone but myself. But here I am, sorting blood-soaked denim and fantasizing about her perfume on my pillow.

She’s…

“They did that with the cherry cheesecake ice cream too,” she says. “One day it’s there, orgasm in the dairy freezer, next day, poof. No warning. Like we’re just supposed to accept their cherry-vanilla bullshit and move on.”

“Fucking unacceptable,” I agree, solemn as a priest in a bloodstained confessional. “Anything else for the fire?”

She unhooks her bra and lets it fall, white lace slipping from her fingers like an afterthought.

I think I manage not to audibly growl. There’s some noise clawing its way up my throat, part inhale, part dying man’s prayer, as I force myself to hold her gaze.

Not her chest. Not her mouth. Her eyes.

She’s trying to kill me. I’m not even resisting.

“This was a matching set,” she says, holding out the bra like it’s just laundry and not the remains of my sanity. “Leave it to a man like Derik to break a set.”

I take it from her, careful not to touch skin. “Do not remove those panties.”

Her eyes go wide and her hand flutters to her mouth. “Oh. I wasn’t thinking. It’s just, the blood, and I, oh, look at you.” She laughs, flustered and fucking divine. “Such a gentleman, and I’m acting like a stripper without a pole.”

Jesus pole-swinging Christ.

That visual is going to haunt me. Scratch that, fuel me. For months.

“There’s a shower in the back,” I say, trying to recover even a scrap of composure. “I always keep a change of clothes.”

Which is true. What’s also true is that now I’m picturing her in just one of my shirts. Unbuttoned. Or a suit jacket. No shirt. Maybe just a tie… looped around her wrists. Or her throat. God help me, her mouth.

“Edgar?” she says gently. “The shower? Or just clothes will be fine.”

Right. Shower. Focus.

I deposit the bloodied clothes into the oven, evidence, lingerie, lust, all marinating in carbon and chaos, and lead her to the small shower room behind my office.

Inside, I flip the light, show her where the soap is, retrieve a towel, and fold it carefully like that’s the thing keeping me from pouncing.

Then, because I have absolutely no survival instincts, I ask, “Would you like help? Cleaning off the DNA.”

Her brows lift. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t mock. She just says, “I absolutely would… but I have rules.”

Rules. Of course she does.

“If we’re counting the sub shop, then breakfast, and our dinner, that only puts us at date three. I don’t do anything intimate beyond kissing or heavy petting until after date four. If you haven’t red-flagged out.” She starts to tug down her panties.

I’m going to die.

Fuck me sideways with a hacksaw, now she’s naked. Just… standing there. Covered in drying blood and bright florescent light and the sheer force of my obliterated restraint.

“A shower would count as intimate, I assume?” I ask, voice shredded thin. “And tonight doesn’t count? But the pastries did?”

“Tonight is technically work,” she says, stepping back into the stall. “There was no food. No movie. So, not a date.” She pauses. Smiles. “But the pastries definitely counted.”

“Right,” I say, trying to memorize the curve of her back as she disappears behind the curtain. “I’ll find you something to wear. Make a snack. And we’ll talk about my red flag evaluation over fourth-date finger food.”

The first thing I do is find her something to wear.

She’s small, short enough that one of my shirts could pass for a dress on her. It probably wouldn’t button around her curves, and that suits me just fine. A jacket on its own, though? Sexy. Dangerous. Decadent.

Yes. The jacket. And a tie just for fun.

I drape both over the sink like it’s some kind of offering. A shrine to temptation.

Then I retreat to the kitchen. It feels like the only safe place left in the building.

Feeding her is not something I take lightly. This isn’t a snack, it’s post-homicide refueling. She needs something balanced. Something nourishing. Something that says I see you. I’ll take care of you. Even the messy parts.

I raid the fridge and find a few blocks of cheese, red bell peppers, and cherry tomatoes so ripe they’re practically bursting. I chop and slice with precision, hands steady, heart riotous. In the cupboard I find garlic butter crackers.

She’s in my shower.

I pour a glass of wine. Not the cheap stuff, something with depth, with a finish that lingers. I set the table with care, place the crackers just so. Chocolate pudding and graham crackers for dessert. Sweetness after blood. Closure. Comfort. A promise.

It’s not gourmet. But it’s not gas station either.

I’m just adjusting the last plate when she walks out, and I forget how to breathe.

She’s wearing the jacket. Only the jacket.

Two buttons strained to their limit, just barely managing to contain the swell of her breasts.

Bare legs. Bare feet. A tease of thigh that has no business existing in my kitchen.

The tie I’d envisioned hanging between her tits is somehow even sexier where she’s used it, twisting back those luscious curls, taming them into a loose ponytail that begs to be pulled.

And my brain breaks.

My first two thoughts are marry me and mate with me, both roaring for dominance, both equally valid.

She smiles, soft and smug. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I manage to find my voice. “I’ve never seen my jacket look so stunning. I’ve arranged a fourth date, if you’d like to join me?”

“I’d really like that,” she says, settling into the chair across from mine with the kind of grace that should be criminal. “This looks good.”

So does she. So do we. And I can’t help but wonder if this, her, here, after blood and ash and cleanup, might be the most intimate thing I’ve ever done.

She moans over the cheese like it’s salvation. And for a second, I’m not thinking about her mouth. I’m just... glad. That she’s here. That I can give her something good that didn’t end in blood.

“I might’ve started some scandalous rumors about us when I picked up our pastries,” she says casually, licking tomato from her fingertip like she doesn’t know that I’m unraveling.

“Oh?” I manage, trying not to stare at her mouth. “I’ve survived this town’s gossips for decades. They love a reason to have my name in their mouths.”

She laughs, and it’s filthy. Sultry and amused and full of teeth. “Yeah, same. Cookie probably hasn’t had an orgasm since Reagan, but she was very invested in my pastry pick-up. By the time I hit the hardware store, apparently, we were already fucking.”

I choke on a cracker. “I assume she’s unaware of the four-date rule?”

Her eyes sparkle as she blushes. “No one knows. I mean, not really. I usually only date one person at a time. My system, you know. The garden got crowded. And digging graves is exhausting. But lately… the universe has been testing me. With men who aren’t degenerates.”

She sighs and stabs a tomato slice. It squirts slightly when she bites into it, a ruby streak down her wrist. I lose the thread of the conversation, too busy imagining the precise angle I’d need to catch that drip with my mouth.

“I’ve actually got a date in the morning,” she says, almost sheepish. “And another in the afternoon to clean out my SUV.”

My fork pauses mid-air. “Should I be concerned? Need the oven preheated?”

She snorts. “No. Blake’s a sweetheart. Wouldn’t cross a line on purpose.”

I know that Blake. Sweet, golden retriever energy. Fixed the backdoor lock for me in under ten minutes and flushed when I offered him a soda. We went to school together. Not friends, not enemies. Decent man.

“Handyman,” I say, grabbing a slice of pepper. “Abs for days? Annoyingly kind?”

“That’s the one,” she says, smiling around a cracker.

“And what date is he on?”

She tilts her head. “Honestly? I wasn’t even counting his. We’ve had a lot of snacks together and he helped me empty the garden. Though he didn’t know what we were digging up. Not really. I couldn’t drag him into that.”

My cock twitches. Inappropriately. Emotionally. Existentially.

I am not a jealous man.