Page 47 of Half the Summer's Night

“W-why?” I stammer out, bracing against the banister.

“I want to touch you properly,” he says. “And I can’t do it out here.”

My heart thunders. I can’t possibly be considering this.

But that kiss—no one’s ever kissed me like that. Slow and sweet. Almost worshipful. I press my thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure there. Or hide it.

“Why me?” I ask.

My killer stares at me, his eyes dark behind his mask.

“Because you’re perfect,” he answers.

I’m too stunned to say anything to that. Even when he takes my hand in his, braiding our fingers together. Even when he tugs me gently toward the door. My feet slip over each other to follow him.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “I told you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He eases the door open, and I blink at the rush of AC spilling out into the hot, humid night. Then we’re standing together in the foyer, only this time there’s no dead body lying on the floor. There’s only us.

My killer pushes the door closed and turns to me. I suck down a deep breath, my hands trembling. That tension pulls taut inside me: the knowledge that I should tell him no. The fact that I don’t want to do.

He moves up to me and spreads his hands over my hips and looks me straight in the eye. I catch just enough of them to see that they’re brown.

“May I?” he murmurs.

I can’t speak. My tongue is a weight in my mouth.

But I’m still able to nod.

His eyes change when I do. Lighten, somehow, like he’s smiling.

Then he slides his hand down, easing it between my legs. I suck in my breath as he finds the heat there and makes a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat.

I widen my stance, giving him access. His eyes never leave mine, but his gloved hand slips up beneath my loose, flimsy shorts, shoving them aside. Then he’s stroking me over my underwear, his breath soft and ragged.

Heat surges through me, and I fall into him, winding my arms around his big shoulder. He’s solid and tall and reassuring, something I can cling to as he hikes my thigh up around his hip.

“Stay,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

Then his fingers are on me again, only this time he’s slipping them inside my underwear so the leather of his gloves slides along my damp, aching pussy.

I gasp, digging my fingers into his shoulder blades. I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll fall.

Fall more than I already have. This is a killer, and I’m letting him touch me.

“You’re so warm,” he breathes as he slides his gloves up between my folds. “And you open up to me so easily.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to pretend someone else is touching me. Someone who isn’t a murderer.

It doesn’t work. Because I can smellhim, my killer, the dark, sweet earthiness of his scent, and I bury my head into the crook of his neck.

One of his fingers slides into me. This time, I can’t bite back my moan. Nor can I ignore the way his body shudders as he pushes his finger into the wetness there.

I should not be wet for him. But I am. Wet enough that his thick leather-covered finger goes in easily. He pushes it back and forth, making me keen softly and twine my arms tighter around his shoulders.

“Do you like this?” he says roughly.

I don’t answer except to roll my hips against his hand.More. I want more of him. Pressure’s already building in my core, hot and traitorous.