Cassandra Cantrell, the thirty-year-old beauty next door, is blinking up at me with her trusting amber eyes, her mouth red and puffy from my kiss, and her body vibrating like it’s ready to explode.
The girl who flutters through life, no regard for her own safety, is looking at me like she wants me to fuck her. Like she’d happily reenact any one of those photos, only this time with my dick buried inside her. One hole or another.
She’s watching me like she’s waiting for me to explain what’s happening. To explain why it feels like this between us.
She’s doing that, and I’m getting text messages. Which means someone needs to die tonight.
And because I have more deaths on my hands than bones in my body, I’m the man who’s going to do it.
Karmine’s words echo in my mind. The warning about bad actors closing in. And I know I have to leave.
“Hans?” Cassandra says my name, and I hate it.
Because I crave it.
I flex my fingers, taking in one last handful. “Lock your door.”
A question starts to form on her sweet lips, but I pull my hands free.
Free of her chest. Free of her heat.
Then I step away, breaking the last contact between us, forcing her legs to unwind from my waist.
Cassandra tips backward.
Her arms go wide, she lets out a little shriek, and then she hits the sitting part of the couch with a little bounce.
Before she can right herself, I shove my hand between the cushions, then stride out of the room and out of her house.
I don’t belong here.
