I yank the knife from her hand before I even think.Her breath hitching at the abrupt motion goes straight through me like a shot of bourbon.
Becki rubs herself harder.Her lips part.My cock twitches in my pants.Her pupils blow wide.Her knees fall open another inch.
My dick fucking spasms.
“You like these,” she says softly.“You like the control.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand control.”
“I understand power,” she murmurs.“Especially when someone is holding it by the blade.”
Christ.
Moving, before I can think, I grab her wrist, the one with the chain.Stop her from getting off and lift it between us, place her hand on the bulge in my pants.The metal links scrape softly, her pulse fluttering under my fingers.
Her heart’s quick, fear or arousal, I can’t tell.
Probably both.
“You want me to lose control,” I say.
She stares straight at me.“I want you to stop lying to yourself.”
Her mouth is right there.Perfect.Soft.Infuriating.All I would have to do is unzip.My self-control is frayed to threads.
I drag the dull side of the knife down the inside of her forearm, slow enough to make her shiver.She watches the blade, not with fear but with fascination, like she knows I would never cut her.
That is the problem.
I would.
I would cut her until she bleeds.
“You think you’re safe with me,” I say.
“I know I ain’t,” she whispers, nibbling her lip.“But I’m safer than you are.”
My throat tightens.“Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re afraid of what you’ll do,” she says.“And I ain’t.”
My hand trembles.Taking her hand off my hardness, I press her wrist against the wall behind her head, my body crowding hers without touching.The knife rests close to the wall next to her cheek, my knuckles brushing her skin.
She turns her head slightly, lips grazing the side of my hand.Not a kiss.Just enough softness to destroy me.
I imagine it.
Her breath catching as I run the blade along her thigh, enough pressure to make her bleed.Make her scream.My other hand ripping her shorts aside.Her legs wrapping around me, pulling me in, chain rattling like she’s begging to be kept.
I drop the knife.
It clatters to the floor.
I grab her jaw with my free hand, rough, punishing, squeezing.Just holding her because if I don’t hold something, I will shatter.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper.
“Stop.”Her voice strains between my hand, breathless.
