Shivers of pleasure run through me as I rub my hand between my legs. As soon as the elevator doors shut, I couldn’t help myself. I slipped my hand down my panties and began to work my clit in fast circles.

I pant softly, trying to be quiet. I don’t know if he can see me, but part of me wants him to watch. I slide the blanket off me and lean back into the mattress, spreading my legs wide.

I want him to see me. It’s so crazy and I must be sick, but I’m dripping wet and I can’t stop myself anymore. I press my fingers deep inside of me and gasp, rolling them along my wall, searching for that bundle of nerves that drives me crazy. I slid them in and out, pressing against myself, pushing deep into my pussy.

I wanted to lash out against him, but I couldn’t. He was right. Everything he said was right. I’m a dirty, disgusting girl and I want to choke on his big, thick cock. I want to feel him between my legs. I want him to hold me down, chain me to the mattress, and fuck me until I’m absolutely out of my mind screaming with pleasure.

I hate that I want him so badly. He’s a killer, a freak, a bastard. He’s so cocky and arrogant. He talks to me like I’m his little pet that he keeps in his basement, just waiting for me to need to fuck him. But the fucked up part is that it makes me insanely wet with need and desire. I want him to look at me like he wants to use me until I’m a dripping mess on the floor at his feet, begging him to keep going.

He’s a bastard, but he’s a gorgeous bastard. I want to hate him, but I don’t. I respect him. I like what he does to the rotten people of the world. If he is what he says he is, and everything suggests he isn’t lying, then he’s the greatest man I’ve ever met.

As my fingers slide in and out, pleasure mounting, I realize that I want to help him. I want to kill with him. I hate my father and all the men like him in the world and I want to stop them. I want to destroy them like Noah does, because he’s man enough to do it. I want his strong arms wrapped around my body as he thrusts deep into my tight pussy while the body of some abusive fucking scumbag goes cold on the ground.

I come hard, the orgasm racing through me, pulse hammering through my throat. I moan his name softly, trying not to say it too loudly, but it escapes my lips. When it slowly passes, I lie back on my mattress, panting and sweating, staring up at the wall.

“Fuck,” I say softly to myself.

That was a little insane. Well, that was more than insane. I must be sick or crazy. I just got off thinking about the serial killer that’s keeping me locked in his basement. I got off thinking about how I want to help him kill bad guys, and maybe even let his strong body fuck me at the scene of the crime.

I’m going mad, locked in this basement. But even after my orgasm, the thought of fucking Noah doesn’t repulse me. In fact, it just makes me excited all over again. That wasn’t just some crazy sexual fantasy, then.

It’s for real. There’s a real part of me that wants to help him.

I don’t know what to do with that information. I can’t really process it, not all at once at least. There’s still so much I don’t know about him and need to learn about him before I can possibly tell him what I’m thinking.

He’s right. I need to trust him and he needs to trust me. I need to find a way to earn that trust, and maybe, just maybe, killing with him is the right path for me.

Shivers run down my spine as I bury my face in a pillow and try not to get aroused all over again thinking of Noah pinning me to this mattress and fucking me raw.

Time passes as I tear through the first Harry Potter book. I’m grateful to him that I can get into the bathroom and that I have books, because otherwise I’d be stuck sitting around suffering again.

The elevator dings suddenly, pulling me from my book trance. I blink as the door slides open slowly. For a second, I feel embarrassed about what I did earlier, but I don’t have time to dissect that feeling. Noah strides from the elevator with dinner on a tray and sets it down next to me.

“Eat,” he says, like he always does, and sits a few feet away.

I nod at him and pick up the tray. “You don’t have to command me to eat, you know.”

“I like to command you.”

I give him a look. “I bet you do.”

He grins. “Can’t help it.” He cocks his head and watches as I take a few bites. It’s a delicious sandwich with thick slices of fresh turkey, lettuce, tomato, and a little mustard. I’m not usually into sandwiches like this, but I’m starving and it’s delicious.

“I want to ask you something,” I finally say after a minute of eating in silence.

“Okay,” he says. “Ask me.”

“You’re a serial killer.”

A small smile plays across his handsome face. “Is that a question or a statement?”

“Statement.”

“Okay.” He continues looking at me without changing expression.

“How do you choose them?”

“My victims?” He’s trying not to smile and that just makes me more annoyed.

“Yes,” I say. “Your victims. You said that they’re all bad people. How do you know?”

“It’s not so complicated, actually,” he says. “I have a lot of money. You can get a lot done with money.”

“How did you figure out who to pay?”

“Well, that was the tricky part. I wasn’t always so good at this.” He laughs, looking off into the distance. “I made a few mistakes in the beginning.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“No,” he says, looking back at me. “Not anymore. I have a network of informants in the city, people with incentives to take my money and look away from what I’m doing.”

“They know you’re a killer?”

“Not exactly.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what they think. But they are discreet, efficient, and most important, they’re invisible.”

I pause. “Invisible?”

“Homeless.” He smiles and shrugs. “Homeless people are invisible in cities.”

“Ah,” I say slowly, nodding. “So you have homeless people tell you about bad people?”

“It’s more complicated than that. But yes, more or less.”

“What happens when you’re wrong?”

“I’ve only been wrong once, a long, long time ago,” he says, his smile slowly fading. “I won’t make that mistake again. I’m very careful, Amelia.”

“I’m sure you are, but how can you know? How can you be the one to kill these people when the law doesn’t get them?”

He holds a hand up. “Stop,” he says. “I can see where you’re going, but you don’t believe this argument anymore than I do. We both know bad people get away with a lot in this world, people that don’t deserve to keep breathing. I find them, I verify that they’re very bad people, and I kill them. The world continues spinning, slightly better than before.”

“But how can you know?”

His smile returns, slightly stiffer. “Like I said, I’m very careful.”

I sigh and finish my meal. I want him to give me details, real plans about how he does it, but I realize that’s impossible. It’s probably different for every kill. But I do believe him when he says that he’s rich. That’s clear from this house and this property.

And I believe that he’s careful. I can see that in the way he’s treated me. So far, he’s made me as comfortable as possible, but he hasn’t given me a single opportunity to escape. He’s meticulously careful, keeping my chain the right length, the right strength, making sure the things I have are safe and can’t be used to hurt him or escape. He’s smart, that’s obvious.

It’s possible, very possible, that he’s not lying to me. It’s possible that he only kills very bad people. But there’s one last thing that nags me.

“What’s bad enough for you?” I finally ask him. “What can get someone killed?”

“I have particular criteria. Rapists, especially pedophiles, tend to top my list. Murderers come next, especially those that murder children. Finally, abusive men, especially those that abuse children.”

“Which was my father?” I ask softly, realizing with horror that I’m not sure which category he falls into.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I’m sure.”

He sighs. “Rapist. A little girl.”

“Fuck,” I say, exhaling. I knew my father was an abusive, drunk piece of shit, but I had no clue he had victims other than me. “He was sick.”

“As far as I know, that was his only victim. I don’t know if there were others . . . “ He trails off and cocks his head at me.

I bit my lip. “You know there was one more victim.” I look at him then defiantly, feeling a strange anger inside of me, but also a strange peace. I’m angry that he would pretend like he doesn’t know, since he’s clearly smart enough to figure it out. But it feels so good to say it out loud.

“I thought so,” he said finally. “I’m sorry that happened to you. He got what he deserved.”

“I’m happy you did it,” I say fiercely.

He smiles, which surprises me. It’s not a light moment, but clearly he’s pleased. “Good. I’m glad that makes you happy.”

“He was a piece of shit. Men like him should be dead.”

“Then we agree on something.” He reaches out and takes the tray from me, gently removing the cup from my hand and placing it on the plate. He stands up and I watch him, at a loss for words.

“Think about that some more,” he says and then turns and leaves.

I watch him disappear into the elevator, not sure what just happened.

I felt a righteous anger at the men he was killing and clearly he saw that. For a moment, we agreed with each other. What Noah does is good and just, even if his methods are dark and horrible.

The realization strikes me, even if it isn’t a new thought. I’m not disgusted by him. I’m not repulsed by him.

I want to help him. I want to kill with him.

Thinking that nearly takes my breath away.