Page 37 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
Edgar
“I’m sorry for the short notice,” she says, peeling off her gloves with a sigh. “It was only date two. I might’ve jumped the gun.”
Literally. Metaphorically. Spiritually. It tracks.
I untie my apron and linger a beat too long in her orbit. “You’ve got blood on your clothes. I can burn them too. No DNA, no risk.”
I sound casual. Clinical. I am neither.
It’s astonishing she hasn’t been caught. She’s so brazen, it borders on mythic. Like she’s got a guardian crime scene angel, or just incredible tits and an ungodly amount of bleach.
“God, you’re right,” she says, and then just tugs her shirt over her head.
Christ.
“I usually just bleach them and donate to Goodwill,” she adds like this is normal behavior.
She’s… beautiful’s too soft a word. She’s feral. A vision in white lace and arterial red. Her nipples peak through delicate fabric and I look away before I do something stupid. Or obvious. Or worshipful.
“There’s blood on my jeans,” she says, frowning down at them. “That grabby prick. And they don’t even make this cut anymore.”
She shimmies out of them with a little wiggle, careless and glorious, like she’s done it a thousand times for strangers, except I’m not a stranger.
At least my cock thinks I’m not a stranger. It responds accordingly.
It’s the wiggle. Or the hips I could press my hands into until I leave bruises in the shape of want. Or maybe it’s the way she talks about murder like it’s a household chore, laundry or dusting.
I could fall for her. Or fuck her in the ashes of her ex. Or both. Probably both.
“Edgar?” she asks, lips quirking. “You with me?”
Not remotely. But I nod.
I take the jeans from her outstretched hand. “Of course. As soon as you find something perfect, some nitwit in marketing axes the whole line.”
My fingers graze hers. I pretend not to notice.
She doesn’t recoil.
I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve never wanted to be a cleaner for anyone but myself. But here I am, sorting blood-soaked denim and fantasizing about her perfume on my pillow.
She’s…
“They did that with the cherry cheesecake ice cream too,” she says. “One day it’s there, orgasm in the dairy freezer, next day, poof. No warning. Like we’re just supposed to accept their cherry-vanilla bullshit and move on.”
“Fucking unacceptable,” I agree, solemn as a priest in a bloodstained confessional. “Anything else for the fire?”
She unhooks her bra and lets it fall, white lace slipping from her fingers like an afterthought.
I think I manage not to audibly growl. There’s some noise clawing its way up my throat, part inhale, part dying man’s prayer, as I force myself to hold her gaze.
Not her chest. Not her mouth. Her eyes.
She’s trying to kill me. I’m not even resisting.
“This was a matching set,” she says, holding out the bra like it’s just laundry and not the remains of my sanity. “Leave it to a man like Derik to break a set.”
I take it from her, careful not to touch skin. “Do not remove those panties.”
