Page 14 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“Three.”

“And when they caught you?”

My mouth goes dry.

“They shared me.”

His fingers reach the edge of my underwear.

“Did they ask first?”

The question slices through the haze of desire.

“Yes.”

“Did they stop when you asked?”

“Yes.”

“Did they take care of you afterward?”

“Yes.”

Only then does he slip one finger beneath the fabric. He finds me wet. A low curse leaves him. My hips lift instinctively. Rhys presses them back against the table.

“Stay still.”

“That might be difficult.”

“I don’t remember asking whether it would be easy.”

His thumb circles me through the lace. My head falls back. The sensation is light—barely there—but after the chase, capture, and every command spoken against my skin, it feels unbearable.

“More.”

“No.”

I pull against the ribbon.

“Rhys.”

“That isn’t how you ask.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

I could strangle him. He would probably enjoy watching me try.

“Please touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

His hand disappears. A furious sound tears from my throat. Rhys laughs. The Reaper actually laughs while I sit blindfolded and bound in front of him. Dripping wet in my own juices needing so desperately to be released of sin.

“You think this is funny?”