“I—fuck. God,” I moan, because my body folds instantly, melting back into him without even asking my permission. He works me in that perfect, overwhelming way that makes thinking feel optional.
He chuckles low. ‘“Oh fuck no. God isn’t doing this” he murmurs. “It’s my hands that are making you feel good. Don’t givehimcredit for what I’m doing to you.’”
The words sink in slow, heavy, settling somewhere deep and dangerous, and my laugh comes out breathless and wrecked as the bass swallows whatever smart thought I might’ve had next.
Everyone around us keeps dancing like this is just another rave, lights flashing, bass pounding, completely fucking clueless that one of the city’s serial Cupid killers has his fingers inside me in plain sight.
The very same hands that spill blood, that carve those sick little love notes into the flesh of his victims, are now pulling pleasure out of me like it’s nothing. And I know exactly what his hands have done. I know there’s probably still blood on them from tonight. I know exactly what he is.
I just…don’t care.
Not when he’s touching me like this, and my body reacts faster than my brain can keep up. Not when the drugs have everything turned up too high for fear to get a word in. If anything, the fucked-up contrast only makes it worse, makes the whole thing hit deeper, sharper.
Yeah. I know I should care.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe when his fingers curl just right, hooking into that spot that makes my knees threaten to fold.
He feels it immediately.
His mouth drops to my ear, teeth grazing before a low, pleased laugh. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That sound you keep trying to choke back.Don’t. Fucking give it to me.”
My pulse stutters.
“Fuck,” he adds quietly, like he’s savoring it, “you’re so tight. Sweet little cunt squeezing my fingers like it’s been starving.”
My breath comes out shaky, uneven.
“Like you’ve been waiting all night for someone to finally pay attention,” he continues, voice lazy, cruel in the way he drags it out. “Cupid noticed,” he says softly, almost amused. “I always do.”
Holy fuck.
Is this how all killers talk when they catch their victims? Because if this is what happens before I die, I will literally walk into the afterlife smiling.
His grip tightens, holding me closer as his hand picks up its pace just enough to let me know he’s in control. His cock stays pressed to my ass, rock hard and unforgiving, while his thumb keeps circling, and his fingers continue their euphoric assault, pushing me closer without letting me fall.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost amused. “I know you’re close, so go on. What are you holding out for, hmm? Isn’t this what you wanted when you taunted us? To be hunted, caught and used.”
“Oh god—fuck—” My voice cracks, useless now. “Kross…”
He hums, pleased. “Mmm…say my name like that again and I’ll let you come.”
“Kross,” I gasp, hips stuttering against his hand. “I’m gonna?—”
“That’s it,” he growls, lips brushing my ear. “Cum for Cupid, Aeri.” His voice drops lower, darker, wrapped tight around every nerve in my body. “Let me hear you, little Valentine,” he adds. “Show me what you sound like when this cupid hits his fucking mark.”
The drugs, the music, the danger—it all crashes together at once. My body goes tight, every nerve lighting up as my orgasm tears through me, sharp and overwhelming, like I’ve been shoved straight over the edge with no warning.
I come hard against his hand, shaking, breath ripped out of me while the crowd keeps dancing like nothing just happened.
Behind me, he laughs.
Low. Satisfied. Like this played out exactly the way he expected it to.
His mouth brushes my shoulder, then my neck, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make my skin buzz all over again. He keeps me pinned there for a second longer, hands firm and possessive, like he’s claiming the moment before letting it go.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You look unreal like this. All flushed and worked up. Coming apart on my hand like you didn’t give a fuck who was watching.”
I turn toward him, breath still uneven, pulse everywhere.
