Page 24 of Executing Malice

I feel the air shift next to me and then a chuckle. Low and amused.

“You think I’m going to ask you to put the lotion in the basket?”

I lick my lips. “Honestly, I’d rather you eat me than wear me, if I get a choice.”

“Interesting.”

A fork tings gently. I flinch when weight is added to the thing on my heaving stomach. It remains firm and steady as he saws through it ... with a knife.

He’s cutting the steak ... on my stomach. I cease breathing with the first whisper of jagged teeth kissing skin.

“Open,” he offers lightly. “I made it myself. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Who is it?” I squeak. “Do I know them?”

I can almost hear the roll of his eyes in the heave of his sigh. “It’s not a person, Leila. It’s beef.” He pauses before asking, “would you eat it if you didn’t know them?”

I consider the question. “Would you let me go if I did?”

I was not expecting the brush of his mouth on mine until he’s pulling away. The hard, weirdly sweet kiss lingers, burning my lips long after he’s drawn back.

“Open,” he says again, amusement still in his voice.

I don’t know how fast Stockholm is supposed to set in, but I open obediently. A little proud of myself for making him smile.

The chunk of beef slips between my lips. Warm, buttery richness floods my mouth. The perfect blend of seasoning explodes across my tongue. It’s the most delicious thing I have ever tasted and I am powerless to stop the low moan that escapes.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice dragging like velvet across my flushed — and sticky — body. “Swallow.”

I do. Mostly because I’m still scared he might change his mind about wearing my skin, but also because if this is my last meal, I’m going to enjoy it.

“Did you drug it?” Still, I snake my tongue out to lick the juice from the corner of my mouth. “Is this how you get your victims to be quiet?”

He snorts. “If I wanted you quiet, I would have gagged you with your own panties.”

I choke. “Jesus.”

Long fingers close around my throat. Squeeze just enough to scatter my thoughts.

“Dead or not, you will never use another man’s name while you’re naked for me. I am the only man who will live and die for your sins, Leila.”

Oh shit.

“I’m not great with commitment,” I breathe, voice unmistakably raspy.

The fingers disappear and I suck in a breath. I barely get a chance to exhale when my lips are nudged with a fresh chunk of meat that I immediately accept.

“We’ll work on that,” he says, following the steak with creamy mashed potatoes.

By the sixth or seventh sawing of the beef, I don’t even stiffen anymore. Even when the teeth graze my belly, a compliant part of me knows he won’t actually hurt me.

I think.

Maybe the meal is drugged and I’m going to become the next unsolved murder case, but my body is ... comfortable. Okay, not exactly. My shoulders are starting to ache and the edges of the table digs into the soft tissues of my thighs, but I’m not scared.

Stupid? Yes. Definitely.

My brain can’t even begin to comprehend the sheer idiocy, but my body feels safe.