Larry remains silent. The bulge in his pants speaks to his arousal despite his lack of voice.
Grayson sighs, long and breathy. “The truth is, Larry. You’re not worthy. She could snap your mind like a twig without breaking a sweat, then have you groveling at her feet, begging her to do it again, before you slit your own throat just to make the torment end.”
Moonlight bleeds in from a dirty window, catching the blade as Grayson flicks it back and forth, back and forth, silver glinting.
“Maybe neither of us are worthy,” Grayson continues, “but you’re absolutely fucking beneath her.”
The blade slips down to Larry’s throat. Larry is shaking now. A muddle of curses and prayers fall from his mouth, melding together incoherently. And Grayson’s intense stare is aimed on me.
Just as I selected a key to end a man’s life before, Grayson is waiting for me to decide. Either way, Larry cannot leave here alive. He knows who we are. He knows too much. He will die by one of our hands.
Or by both.
I ease off the unit and move toward Grayson, summoned to him like light to a black hole. Only I’m a volunteer—his gravitational pull captured me willingly.
He towers above, face drawn in sharp angles and contrasting beauty, as I place myself directly opposite my lover, my fiend. With our victim between us, I lay my hand over Grayson’s and, holding his unwavering gaze, drag the blade across the rapist’s throat.
It’s not an easy kill. It takes strength. My grip on Grayson’s hand is steady and firm as I force the blade deep, slicing through cartilage. Memories of steel hitting bone assault me. The vibration ricochets through the blade as it cuts through muscle and tendon…and suddenly I’m back in that dark basement. My father’s hand covering mine as he takes a life.
Understanding dawns. Grayson never does anything impulsively. The victim selection; the hasty kill; the warehouse. All my choices, but always by his design.
Where I was molded into a killer against my will, Grayson is liberating me of that experience. Reinventing it; making it ours.
I’m engrossed, drugged. There’s a moment of shocked uncertainty that graces the victim’s expression before blood beads in a dark-red line across his neck. It then streams down his throat, a thick river coating his chest with a shiny red lacquer. His wet gurgle echoes around the enclosed space.
Warmth spreads over the back of my hand. The wet heat of blood. Copper mists the air, the scent of murder an aphrodisiac.
I’m watching our victim, but Grayson is watching me. I can feel his eyes boring through me, taking in every movement, every response.
Grayson releases the body, and it crumples to the tarp. He lets our victim fall unceremoniously without an afterthought. My gaze flicks up to meet Grayson’s as a hungry pang ricochets through my body. The ache builds, ravenous, demanding to be filled. As Grayson steps around the pool of blood, his penetrating gaze drilling me, that ache pushes deeper, arching my back.
He stalks me like a hunter, like he’s starving, and drops the blade before he captures my hips and hauls me up into his arms. I’m so close already. Trembling, on the brink, barely able to hold onto his shoulders as he moves us toward the container.
His movements are primal. Need dictating. He lays me down on the steel surface and pushes my skirt up, his fingers leaving a trail of red in their wake. My skirt and panties are tugged down my thighs in one swift action.
He doesn’t ask—he doesn’t need to; the question of whether I’m aroused by our kill is answered as he tastes me, my body giving him proof where words fail. We’re beyond simple communication. Our desire only answered in raw, carnal flesh and blood.
As soon as he drops between my thighs, his mouth surrounding me, I spike with unadulterated need. A sharp pulse spears the ache deeper, a pain so pleasurable I grit my teeth as every muscle contracts, my core clenching to be fulfilled.
Grayson looks up from between my legs as he devours, watching the wave crest over me. I break with a single flick of his tongue, too stimulated to stop the crash. But I’m not sated. Far from it. The external orgasm only heightens my need to feel him inside me.
“I need you.” It comes as a breathy plea, but Grayson is already in motion to claim what’s his.
He braces a hand on the container as his other reaches for the closure of his jeans. I glimpse his hard length as he lowers the zipper, my sex throbbing with renewed want at the erotic sight.
“You taste like sin,” he says as he hovers above. Then he hooks an arm beneath my lower back, decidedly placing me at the perfect angle.
No holding back. Grayson enters me in one forceful thrust, sealing his mouth over mine to swallow my cry. I latch on to his neck, clinging to him as he fills the void. My thighs quiver from the impact, my breasts ache to feel the abrasive rub of his chest.
He grips my hips and slams inside me again, harder, his kiss stealing oxygen from my lungs. I work at his buttons, desperate to remove all barriers between us, just as he pushes my blouse up to reveal me fully.
I yank at the collar, breaking the kiss as I finally shove the shirt over his shoulders. Then I place my palm against his bare chest. The feel of the rough, slanted scars—the number of his kills—sends an arousing tremor rocketing through my body as he buries himself deep.
That frantic desperation returns, insatiable. The frenzy consumes us—more, closer, not enough. Never enough. Once his shirt is stripped from his arms, I fight to get closer, my chest seeking that vital friction. His groan ricochets through me as he grabs my backside and wrenches me hard against him, lifting me off the steel.
Legs locked around his trim waist, I undulate my hips, riding him as he braces against the only solid surface to keep us from falling. It feels dirty, and raw, and like fucking perfection.
His fingers snake into my hair to gain a firm grasp as he meets each rock of my hips. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re fucking breaking me.”