I suck his finger clean.
Something shifts. His gaze sharpens, his lips part slightly.
His hands dip to my hips… and then he freezes.
Shit.
His fingers wrap around something cold and hard, tucked into my back pocket. Slowly, he pulls it free and lifts it between us.
The knife.
Small. Compact. Matte black.
Fuckingstupid.
“You brought a weapon to dinner?” he asks, amusement curling in his voice.
“It’s for protection,” I mutter. “Old habit.”
He flips it open with one smooth motion, holding the blade between two fingers. Then softly, with maddening control, he presses the flat edge against my jaw. My breath catches.
He slides it down my throat to my chest. The cold bite of steel sets off every nerve in my body.
He brings the tip of the blade just beneath the waistband of my pants. My hips jerk.
“Nico, I—”
“Shh.”
He cuts the whipped cream-covered button open with the tip. He doesn’t nick me, just lets me feel the weight of howcloseit is.
“I could carve you up,” he whispers. “Make you mine for real.”
“Do it,”I say before I can stop myself. “Make me bleed.”
His smile sharpens, feral and hungry.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
The cold kiss of the blade slides up my inner thigh, slicing through fabric. He tilts it just enough to bite, not deep, but enough to make me suck in a breath.
Then he presses slowly.
A razor-fine sting.
A bead of blood blooms against my skin.
His gaze never leaves mine as he leans down… andlicks it clean.
Hot tongue. Sharp teeth. The heat of his breath against the cut.
I shudder.
He groans low in his throat, like he’s tasting something rare.
Like he wantsmore.
My breath’s a fucking mess. My heart’s about to punch its way out of my chest.
