Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I look around, just to make sure none of my family members have followed me. Then I slide into the car. And I wonder if it’s like stepping into hell, because he smirks as he slams the door behind me. No kidnapping or restraints required.
I’m willingly playing with fire.
It could ruin me.
But I hope it ruins him tenfold in return.
If not tonight, then another when I kill him.
CHAPTER 18
Hope
The three-story apartment complex is on the outskirts of the city. It’s small and quiet and exactly what I imagined—mediocre. It’s nothing fancy, not compared to the homes and hotels past lovers have taken me to as if to try and impress me. Yet, it has a certain charm about it.
When he opens the door to his apartment, he turns on the light, revealing a studio room with wooden tones. The living area is simple, with a deep green couch and fireplace. There’s a TV mounted on the wall. Beside it is a king-sized bed with black sheets and a black duvet.
The kitchen is done in black and white subway tile, with an island counter, and the dining table is the only thing that looks like it’s regularly used. Mountains of paperwork cover the surface. A laptop sits in the center, and a half-filled jug of what looks like coffee and an empty mug take up the rest of the space.
He heads to the fridge as I further inspect his home. I quickly become curious about the string of photos on the brick wall beside his dining table. He opens a beer and then turns to me. “Want one?”
“No.”
His lips quirk up, and he watches me with those bright blue eyes as if he were waiting for me to run. But I don’t intend to run. He may have threatened to drag me here, but I came willingly.
Flashbacks from that night when we were together roll through my head, and I wonder how much we’ve both changed since then.
I push away the thoughts as I take in the images that cover the majority of the wall. It’s a masterpiece, really. The red thread connects crime scene photos of different bodies. Bodies I know well. I’ve sculpted the majority of them. My fingers trail over the string, leading to the one that brings my face into the equation.
“Surely, you could’ve found a better picture?” I chide.
He comes up behind me, leaning against the table. It’s common sense not to let me see this, especially because of my family. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I very much like it. The photo he has is one taken from my Instagram account.
“The only image I’ll replace it with is one of you on your knees, naked and sucking my cock.”
A string of desire immediately tightens down my spine, and my skin feels taut over my muscles. “What would your colleagues think?”
“I don’t see anyone else in this room.”
I look over my shoulder suggestively. “Just photos of dead bodies?”
He points the mouth of the bottle at me. “I have a feeling you don’t mind.”
I try to hide the smirk as I turn back to study it. I’m in awe. The way it inspires me is a little worrisome. We both have our forms of art, but the thing that draws us together is our interest in bodies. Morbid as it may be, I think the detective and I are more similar than I first thought.
Maybe I’m deluding myself.
But doesn’t that make it all a little bit more fun? Like at any moment, I might slip and fall to my death from this tightrope I’m balancing on.
I reach for the clip that’s in my hair and remove it, shaking my head so the locks cascade down my back. I take in a long breath. We’re really going to do this.
“Shortcake.”
I look over my shoulder to find his intense gaze locked on me. I’m not sure why I don’t find it intimidating. Instead, I find it alluring. I may be what he considers shy in many aspects of life. If I’m being frank, I’m just socially awkward. But when it comes to my body and sex, I’ve never felt shamed or timid. I guess part of that is due to the world I was brought up in. The men in my life treat their wives like queens.
Braxton was the only man who made me feel like that during sex, so it’s no surprise I’ve returned. But having more experience now, I wonder if it’ll be the same. What if it’s not? What if it’s disappointing?
I briefly look over my shoulder where he’s removing his holster and gun, placing it on the table casually as if announcing the danger between us.
Well, you’re going to kill him anyway, so why does it matter?
“Braxton. A little help with the dress?” I move my hair to the side and point to the clip that’s near my neck. I hear him slide the bottle across the counter before his footsteps come to a stop behind me. He’s so close that the heat of his body caresses me with invisible hands. I suck in a breath as his fingers brush the back of my neck before he undoes the dress.