I press the blade against her throat again, just a whisper of pressure. "I won’t ask twice, darling."
She swallows hard, the movement causing her skin to shift against the knife—a perfect, fragile motion.
Her lips part. "Yes," she breathes, almost too quiet to hear.
I groan low in my throat, barely restraining the urge to take her right here, on top of these goddamn contracts.
"Good girl," I whisper darkly, my grip tightening on both the knife and her. "Now pick up the fucking pen and sign before I find another way to make you obey."
She doesn’t move a muscle. Trembling in desire as much as in defiance. Not with fear, no, it’s never fear with her. It’s something she won’t admit, but I’ll make her.
I keep the knife at her throat for another second, feeling the quick, uneven stutter of her pulse beneath the steel. She’s breathing faster now, her body taut beneath me, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t beg.
She just waits.
I smirk.
Then slowly I drag the knife lower.
The sharp edge traces the line of her collarbone, down the delicate slope of her sternum.
I raise the knife back up, quickly cutting the straps of her dress, watching it pool at her waist.
Her skin is flushed, fever-warm beneath the cold steel, and when I reach the valley between her breasts, I pause.
Her breath hitches.
She’s waiting for me to stop.
I don’t.
I tilt the blade, just slightly, just enough to let the very tip bite into her skin—a shallow cut, thin as a whisper, blooming red in its wake.
She gasps.
Then she moans, her nipples hardening.
The sound punches through my gut like a fist, straight to the core of something primal, something savage.
My cock twitches painfully, my grip on the knife tightening as I watch a single drop of blood bead and slide down her sternum, disappearing between the soft swell of her breasts.
"Jesus Christ, Martine," I growl, dragging my thumb through the blood, smearing it over her skin. "Tell me how much you like to bleed for me."
She doesn’t answer.
So I press harder.
The blade sinks another fraction into her flesh, not deep, but enough to make her back arch, her lips parting on another ragged, shuddering moan.
"Fuck," I mutter, half to myself, half to her. "You weren’t supposed to be like this. I should ruin you for what you’re doing to me."
Her breath is uneven, but her eyes are locked onto mine, glassy with something that makes my pulse hammer.
"You already have," she whispers.
I curse under my breath, dropping the knife in her lap.
Then I grab her jaw, my fingers digging into her cheeks as I draw her mouth sharply to mine.
