"That's strange," I said thoughtfully.
His brow lifted. "What is?"
"I always imagined that if fiction ever stepped out of a book, it'd smell like paper. Or ink. Or something like that." I studied him with exaggerated disappointment. "But you smell human. I feel misled."
His lips curved - slow, deliberate. Dangerous.
"Oh, love," he murmured. "I may not smell like ink..."
His steps slowed.
"But I assure you," he continued, leaning closer - not enough to touch, just enough to make my pulse stutter - "I taste like it."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, the blush spreading like wildfire as I stared at him, utterly shocked.
"If you doubt me," he said softly, eyes dropping to my mouth, "there's a very simple way to confirm."
Content Warning
This story contains themes and scenes that may be disturbing to some readers, including sexual content, violence and abuse, self-harm, grief and loss, PTSD and trauma, and graphic descriptions of murder and gore.
Write a comment ...