Page 149 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Can I? Oh, if she only knew. If she only understood how I feel about her. She’s the one and only person I ever listen to, that I can be completely honest with. I’ve chosen her, and I’ll kill anybody who gets in my way.
“I can do that,” I agree with a sharp smile, examining the cum dripping down the side of the tree. “Give me … forty minutes or less.”
I hang up, watching as she takes the shovel in hand and attacks the ground with it, unwilling to give up even after asking for my help. My sharp smile softens sightly as I cock my head, enjoying watching her while she’s unaware of my presence. I could do this for hours. Have, on more than one occasion.
Scarlett … she’s so sweet, even if she doesn’t know it.
I thought I had her with Widow, but Ash Kelly … he was a wildcard I couldn’t have expected.
Who knew that Aspen had an identical—and much less psychotic—twin?
What a shame.
I watch Scarlett as the time ticks by, enjoying the sight of her in that bikini top so much that my cock gets hard again, and it takes every ounce of my self-control to push back the urge. My hand cups my crotch and I give it a tight squeeze, exhaling sharply to clear the darkness clouding my brain.
I’d love nothing more than to storm over to her and yank her into me, lay her down on the moist dirt and fuck her beside one of the old, crumbling headstones.
Would she let me, even with a body lying nearby?
“Who did you kill, sweetheart?” I murmur, rubbing at my face and letting out a low chuckle.
With a shake of my head, I walk back down to the Chevelle, start the engine, and drive the last mile to park behind her.
“Shit,” she growls, examining what appears to be the remains of a fresh manicure. “Thanks a lot, dickhead.” Scarlett kicks the body with her bare foot as I creep up behind her, using the shadows and the sounds of her own voice and movements to camouflage my approach.
“Did you really get half-naked to dig a grave?” I ask in a rough purr, enjoying the way Scarlett shivers, her sweaty skin rippling in reaction to my words. She likes me, even if she doesn’t care to admit it.
“You call this half-naked?” she quips, and I cannot even begin to say how pleased I am by her lack of fear and surprise. She didn’t jump or scream, didn’t cower away from me. It’s one of the reasons I like her so much. Bravery and boldness are beyond attractive to me. A little bit of crazy goes a long way, too. “A bikini top and no shoes?”
Touché.
“Louboutins, really?” I ask, smiling through the shadows as I examine the full, round curves of her breasts, the tuck of her waist, the flare of her hips. Oh, I could write poetry about this woman, sketch it in blood, carve it into flesh.
“What do you take me for? Some vagrant pickpocket? I’m a professional, Bohnes.”
My smile stretches a little wider, gets a little more poisonous. The way Scarlett shifts, rubbing her thighs together, tells me that she’d just love it if I were to throw her over the hood of her car and fuck her nice and hard.
Too bad there’s a corpse to worry about. Whose corpse it is, I’d love to know. But I’m not going to ask—not yet anyway. I move over to stand beside her, staring down at the comatose form on the ground. It’s wrapped in a tarp, duct-taped nicely but for one small corner where liquid oozes. She learned a few things from me, it seems.
I’m impressed.
Music drifts from the idling vehicle as I consider how best to go about this. I certainly am not going to bury this man—whoever he is—here. No, this is too much of a hotspot for Prescott students. It’s a party spot, a fuck spot, a place to smoke weed or experiment with drugs. We’re just lucky nobody’s stumbled on us just yet.
If they had, well, it would’ve been a bad day for them, certainly.
“Let me handle this, Scarlett,” I whisper, leaning down and putting my mouth so near to her ear that she shivers all over again, her nipples visibly hardening beneath the black bikini top. My hands ache to cup her breasts, to pull her close, to envelop her in my shadow. I want to take care of her, but she isn’t the sort of woman who wants that. I’ll have to figure out how to be her partner instead. I’m not here for payment or sex; I’m here for her. And, even if she isn’t aware of it, she must trust me. What other man would she allow to find her alone in the dark in nothing but a bikini top and jeans? “This is my specialty, not yours.”
