Drawing in a deep breath, I wrap my fingers around her wrist, lowering the knife to Easton. The asshole who, with Bronwyn, plotted to kill my Skylar.
Adrenaline soaks my blood. The aggressive, violent energy in me needs an outlet.
Work.
Together, Skylar and I run the curved blade down what used to be the bastard’s back.
“Oh, like this, then.” Already, the tremors are gone, and her hand moves with practiced ease.
It’s not just because I’m the one guiding it. She’s so smart, she’d be able to flesh out the next slab on her own.
Except, fuck that, I’m jealous. I’ll be damned if I let her work on him by herself.
“Yes, like that.” I glance at her profile, sliding the blade by muscle memory.
Need spirals down my spine and straight into my cock, so intense it forces my hips against her back. To ground myself through touch. Through her warmth.
My control still hangs by a thread.
Instead of losing it, I do something to curb my urges.
I flick my gaze to Easton.
“You’re doing so well,” I grunt, meaning it.
“I am?” There’s a shakiness to her voice. She’s as on edge as I am. “You think I’m doing well?”
I wish I could express myself better, tell her just how well she’s doing. How, when she lets me guide her, she keeps the blade to stripping only what matters. That she isn’t scraping bone in the process, either.
I’d say those things, but all I can think about is her body, her lips, that pussy I can smell over Easton’s remains.
I’m too choked up for long sentences and flowery words that have never come easily to me in the first place.
So I huff the one thing I can manage. “You see the table under the hide?”
“N-No.”
“Then yes, you’re doing well. You aren’t scarring it.” Fuck fleshing. Fuck my rituals. I just want her.
“Can you tell me more?”
With my jaw clenched, I do my best to give my curious woman what she wants. More explanations.
“Where we drew the blade across, is there a mess there? Any skin left along the edges, or uneven cuts to fix?”
I watch her, obsessed with every twitch of her mouth. With how beautiful she is as she’s trying to focus. Trying not to beg.
“No mess.” Her answer ends up being a simple one.
Unlike her need to be pounded. That one’s complicated. It’s dark. Twisted. Suffocating us both while breathing life into my basement.
“See, that’s good too.” I keep talking because she needs it. Because this connection we’re building is more important than my desires. “Fleshing isn’t about force. It’s about knowing when to stop.”
Her eyes flick to mine, pleading with me before her mouth breathes the word, “Please.”
Fleshing had its rules once. Care, patience, order. But I can’t and won’t stick to my ritual. Won’t just stand here watching her when she’s begging so fucking prettily.
My gloves go first, flung aside. I free my cock that’s already hard and aching. It’s warm and heavy in my palm, leaking when my other hand slides to her hips, dragging her closer. Lining myself up to her heat.
