I must be missing something though, because there’s a reason he’s chosen a guy on death row. I’m guessing he’s in the closet and wantsanonymity. Someone who’ll scratch his itch and disappear. Or he’s an adrenaline junkie, eager to dance on the sharp edge of a knife to get off. I will give him whatever he wants, as soon as I find out what it is.
I don’t need a weapon to kill him, so I keep still when the door opens. After all, he must be armed, and even if I did break his neck in some movie-worthy stunt, the poison would get to me eventually.
I cock my head, admiring the elongated line of his body, the wide shoulders emphasized by the suit jacket and how it tapers at his waist.
“Are we going to your bedroom?”
“No. You need a shower. And lots of soap.”
I try not to flinch, and remind myself that while he just told me I stink, he still wants me to touch him. That has to count for something.
Corvus steps away from the cell, leading me out into the corridor. I don’t know if he’s trying to prove something to me or himself by turning his back on me so soon, but I rather enjoy being able to look at the sliver of skin between his dark hair and the collar of his black shirt.
As I follow him down the grim corridor, past locked doors made of steel, the damp chill of death really gets to me. This will be my one chance, and unless I play my cards right, these concrete walls will be my tomb. It’s a lucky coincidence that gambling’s in my genes, passed down from my shithead of a dad. I may only have one ace up my sleeve, but it’s long, and thick, and I’m not afraid to play it.
“Yousmell really good,” I say, letting my gaze drift to his ass
“I don’t expect you to flatter me. Just do your job,” Corvus tells me, leading the way into a room with tiles on the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling. Two showerheads are installed on one side without any concerns for privacy, but beyond a plexiglass screen meant to containthe water spray is a space resembling a dentist's office straight out of a gore horror movie.
A leather-upholstered chair with many attachments, some of which are chains and belts, stands in the center, and around it, on tidy shelves of steel, and on hooks attached to the wall are… well, implements of torture. Technically, anything can be used for some form of torment, but those pliers, knives, and hammers are here for a very specific reason and it’s not woodworking.
Is this… where he wants to have sex? Does fear turn him on?
I flinch when the door shuts behind us, and Corvus proceeds to lock it by moving a whole series of latches.
I quickly look back at his face to ground myself. He’s… very handsome, but also cold, and I half-expect his skin to have the temperature and texture of steel. He’s here to evaluate my performance, and I can’t help but want to prove myself.
My gaze follows the slope of his straight nose between hooded blue eyes with long dark lashes. His skin’s pampered and supple. His features—angular as a fox’s, with pronounced cheekbones and a sharp jaw. His tongue darts out to wet his lips just as I focus on them, and I want to follow it into Corvus’s mouth. I bet it’s soft. Maybe I have a death wish, but my dad always told me to use my assets, and that brains aren’t among them.
I wanna taste him already. Seal the deal.
Corvus points to the door, moving like a magnificent stallion I wish to mount, even though I don’t feel worthy of it. “It’s soundproof.”
I’m not sure if that reassures me or worries me, but it’s sink or swim.
Chapter 2
Corvus
Ican’tsavemyselfif he’s determined to break my neck, I know that from his file. Dalton Cross used to take part in illegal fights, and his reputation earned him a job as a bouncer at one of our clubs. He’s dangerous, and that fact sends a trickle of electricity down to my cock, even though he’s a trashy guy I have no business being interested in. He’s here to serve my purpose, like a plough exists to score the soil.
I wouldn’t even be here, if a nightmare hadn’t left me too unsettled to go back to sleep. The scent of disinfectant always grounds me, so I dressed and wandered the basement of our family’s mansion. That was when, in the middle of the night, the familiar sound of a Grindr message led me straight to Dalton’s phone inside the box containing the belongings of the men chosen for tomorrow’s hunt.
If it wasn’t for those damn messages, new ones popping up even as I read through the old ones, I wouldn’t have let myself get tempted. No matter how handsome, he’d be just another mark for the hunt.
But the intensity of the desire pouring out of the screen sizzles in my brain and I’m unable to deny myself any longer. I want sex, of course Ido, but a few years ago I came too close to being discovered. Trying to find a regular hookup to scratch that itch became too risky, so I gave up altogether.
Why would all those anonymous men get to have Dalton while I have to deny myself? Fury weaved itself through my veins when I read hopeful messages filled with lust, expectation, memories of sex so good it had them craving for that big man rotting in my cell. Why would they get to be happy when I’m left wanting?
For a couple of minutes, I actuallywantedhim to die, just so all those men feel abandoned, their assholes never“gloriously wrecked”by Dalton Cross again.
But then I saw his dick pics.
The folder calledselfieswas right there in his pictures, and curiosity got the best of me. He’s tan, tattooed up to his neck, muscular, and just the right amount of hairy. Some of the photos focus on body parts, while others were clearly taken at the gym after a workout. I swear I couldsmellthose—all fresh, musky sweat, the dampness lingering from the shower, some cheap shower gel marketed to men insecure about their masculinity. His cock is a thing of beauty, and I don’t want to seem too eager, but I can’t wait to see it in the flesh. Thick, veiny, some pictures showcasing it in his large hand, gripped by massive fingers, sometimes pink with arousal, sometimes already slick with rivulets of cum…
Could he not satisfy my curiosity before he dies tomorrow?
Heat prickles in my cheeks as I watch Dalton expose his broad, meaty chest and biceps the size of my damnhead. He’s like a bull about to rut, and I see him as just that. A human animal whoseraison d'êtreis fucking me. I don’t even dislike that hisdark brown hair is messy and greasy after his time in the cell. I won’t tell him, but I might be into that. I’m not sure. I don’t have enough experience to reach a conclusion.
