Page 232 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
Then we move.
A slow, grinding rhythm—deep, deliberate—until we’re gasping, spiraling.
I shift angle—she cries out, arching.
Her eyes flash down. “Wait—what is that?”
I smirk, roll my hips so the pubic piercing drags her clit.
Her mouth falls open.
“It’s for grinding,” I say, voice low.
And then I do just that.
Her head falls back. “Holy mother of pearl.”
I grind harder, watching every moan, every shiver.
She’s close—I feel it.
“Let go,” I whisper, my thumb brushing her jaw, cock driving into her. “Come on, Lollipop. Let me feel you break.”
She clenches around me, eyes locking on mine as she falls.
Trembling. Gasping.
Fucking beautiful.
“That’s it,” I growl. “That’s my girl.”
Her orgasm tears through her—and I don’t look away.
Don’t let go.
Because she’s it. Everything I want.
I set her on trembling legs, turn her around, bend her over the desk.
“Hold the desk,” I rasp. “Don’t let go.”
Her fingers curl around the edge like it’s all that’s keeping her grounded.
I step behind her, slide a hand between her thighs, line up.
Looking over her shoulder, eyes wide, she’s every wet dream I’ve ever had.
One hard thrust—and I sink to the hilt.
She arches, gasping, body shuddering.
I slap a hand over her mouth, grip her hip, and fuck her.
No mercy.
Just thick, filthy thrusts that make the desk creak.
“That’s it,” I growl, my fingers on her clit. “Let me feel it again.”
