A/N: In all honesty, I thought this was where he was going with that line.
She had been lying in bed, listening to the rain batter the roof for the better part of a half-hour when he spoke. He didn't bother lowering his voice to a whisper; he, like she, had been wide awake ever since that scene in the parking lot.
That murder.
That double murder.
"Would you like something to help you sleep?"
She could hear the sheets rustling as he turned around to face her. A half-hour ago, after they'd trudged inside from the parking lot and discarded their soaked, mud-covered clothes, they'd crawled into opposite sides of the bed and put their backs to one another. They hadn't spoken or moved or looked at each other since.
She didn't turn to look at him now. She stared at the far side of the room, willing the rain to drown out her thoughts, to wash away her memories.
It worked for about fifteen seconds, until she felt his hand at her back. She stiffened at once, straightening her spine against the flat of his palm, but he didn't pull away. The duvet rustled around them as he slid closer to her beneath it. His hand moved up and down, pressing against the ridged column of her spine. She closed her eyes, hating how good the warmth of him felt. Hating how she was thinking about it, actually thinking about it, despite what she'd seen today.
She shut her eyes tight when she felt him press a kiss to the middle of her back. She could feel the scratch of his beard through her thin tank top, and she shivered at the touch, rolling her shoulders to dispel the flash of desire he sparked in her.
He didn't stop. He kissed a line up her back, pushing her hair aside to get at her neck, while his hands slid around her sides to get under her tank top.
She thought about telling him no. She thought about shoving him off. She thought about making him sleep on the floor, or out in the hall.
She should be disgusted by him, and in extension, disgusted by herself for going along with this. What did it matter if helping him was preserving her own life? Things had gone too far now. She should call the cops. She should confess. She should run.
She should not enjoy the feel of his murderous hands on her body.
But she did. She liked the way he touched her, the way he kissed her, the way he fucked her. She liked the way he talked and she liked those rare flashes of his smile she'd seen in the last two days. She liked him, and she had no idea why.
Was it just because of the way he looked, the way he felt inside her? Was it because being with him—imbibing the thrill of danger and lust he radiated—was another way for her to get high? Could it be true that she had absolutely no discipline, no morals, like her mother and all the others had always said? She had watched him murder a woman tonight, stabbing her in the neck with a syringe in almost exactly the same place he was kissing her now, and yet she didn't waste a breath telling him to stop.
She wondered instead if he had liked it, killing that woman. Robin. Did he get off on it the way she had to believe he did—because why else do such a horrible job if you didn't, in some way, enjoy it?
She sucked in a breath when one of his hands rose to cup her breast. He teased the nipple to firmness, pinching slightly, hard enough that she flinched. She wondered if he was thinking about the kill now, as his other hand slipped between her legs. Did he relive the murders in his head? Did he dream of them?
Had he already begun thinking of how he'd kill her, once this was all over?
"Turn around," he whispered in her ear, pressing his erection into her ass.
She shook her head at once, muttering a refusal. She couldn't turn around. She couldn't look at him. Not after what she'd seen before.
He seemed to sense this without her having to explain, and so he didn't argue. He didn't make her turn around. Instead he pulled her underwear down, far enough that he could spread her legs, and he slid inside. She gasped at the force of the entry, at the tight fit, but in the same breath she was grateful for it. She knew why he was doing this after all, why he was acting like this: he was trying to exhaust her.
He had offered, and she had accepted. She was not the type to cower in the face of reality.
As he pulled out and pushed back in, she reached out for the bedpost with one hand, white-knuckling it, as her other hand reached back for him. She dug her nails into his ass, making him push into her harder. She moved with his thrusts, slamming back as he pulled away, and soon the floor was creaking beneath them, the bed shaking around them, but she didn't care. The mix of pleasure and pain he was giving her was so intense it had driven all other thought out of her mind, and that was exactly what she wanted. She focused on nothing except the feel of him behind her, inside her, all around her. When he yanked on her hair to force her head to the side so he could kiss her mouth, she retaliated by biting his lip so hard he bled. He flinched at the pain but didn't retreat; he only kissed her harder, mixing the metal tang of his blood in their mouths as their fierce hands clawed at one another and their bodies devoured each other's.
"How do you live with it?" she gasped when she felt the end coming. She knew there would be no talking after this, perhaps no talking ever, so she had to try now. She had to know now.
"With it?" he panted into her ear, his teeth scraping her neck. "Or myself?"
"Either," she gasped. "Both."
"The same way, I think, that you try to," he answered. He slipped one of his hands down between her legs again, and she moaned, knowing it would be over in a second, whether she wanted it to be or not. "I don't dwell on things past. I keep looking forward. I act, and then I move on."
"But how—"
Her last question was swallowed by her own cry of completion as he drove her hard over the edge, and then kept fucking her, relentless, until he'd achieved his own orgasm. She shuddered when he came inside her, cursing at the hot feel of him, the echo of release. When he pulled out, he left a mess of their pleasure between her legs, but she did not move to get up or clean herself off. His answer was still ringing in her mind, much the way her orgasm was still ringing in her ears, and she wanted to be sure her head was clear before she spoke again.
"How?" she whispered without turning to him. She stared at the far side of the room and spoke to the ghost on the other side of the bed. "How do you move on from this?"
He didn't say anything for a very long time.
"I just do," he said finally.
They didn't speak again until morning.