My sexy torture victim has been stony silent for several minutes while we gathered ourselves together and headed outside, apart from telling me not to worry about leaving the bodies. I’m assuming that means his people will come clean up later, but he didn’t feel like clarifying.
“I don’t have one,” I say.
He gawps at me with the same fly-catching idiocy he had when I started taking my clothes off. It’s pretty cute. The sheer gormlessness of him makes me want to just… do things. Especially considering he couldn’t find his shirt inside and the others were too bloody to use, so all he did was wipe the cum off his chest—mycum, I think with a curl of intensity I wasn’t expecting—and then stroll outside in nothing but his blood-stained jeans and the work boots we did manage to locate.
I find plenty of people to play with, even with the extreme restrictions I have on all carnal activities. It’s not like anyone who knows who I am would even think about breaking my rulesanyway. But I rarely find someone that I’m quite so intrigued by right off the bat.
The only gangsters I’ve been allowed to socialize with in my life have been the Banna. And in my experience, a lot of them are more sexually flexible than they’d have you believe, but they tend to fall into one of two categories: closeted and full of shame that they funnel into anger, or into the whole Spartan it’s-not-gay-if-you-top display of male dominanceblah blahfuckingblahthing.
Both are exhausting and hold no interest for me, which is why I haven’t fucked one of my father’s little henchmen in a long time.
In the past, I’ve found the situation to be even more repressed on this side of the Atlantic than back at home. So, to find someone who looks like the cardboard cutout display version of traditional masculinity openly lusting after me, no reservation in his eyes, all breathy and wanton like an ingénue trapped in the body of a WWE star—it’s doing something to me.
“Well how the fuck did you get here?”
He grimaces at the sun before looking around him, as if one more look might reveal that we’re not in the middle of nowhere.
“I told you, I followed you. You think I was cruising behind you in a Dodge Charger like some kind of fed, out here with no other cars around, and not getting spotted? Fuck no. I snuck in the flatbed of the truck while those useless cunts were loading you into the back seat. Before that I was hitchhiking.”
The man looks at me with his head cocked to the side a little. It’s an expression I’m not unfamiliar with, although I think the amount it’s directed at me is entirely unwarranted. It’s thewho are you and what the fuck are you talking aboutlook.
I’m not bothered this time, though. Partly because he just dicked me down much better than I expected, and partly because I’m distracted by how sweaty he is. It’s making himglisten in the late afternoon sun, all those drops of sweat laying on pale skin like salty little raindrops, refracting light and making him sparkle.
The thought reminds me ofTwilightvampires, obviously, which makes me snort. But that also makes me think about whether I might want to taste his blood if he would let me, and the throb in my still-spent cock tells meyes, yes, I would.
I’m not sure how long I get lost in thought for, but I must have been deep, at least. It happens. People get far too fucking twisted up about it, if you ask me. Who cares if I space out for a minute because my own thoughts are more engaging than whatever’s going on around me?
But the torture victim must have been trying to talk to me and I wasn’t responding. Because the thing that does snap me out of it is the sensation of his rough, warm palm on my arm. He’s not grabbing me hard; it’s just a light touch to get my attention. It’s also paired with those crystalline blue eyes that are just as shiny and sparkly as the rest of him.
Regardless, it’s a shock to my nervous system, and every inch of me clenches, preparing to recoil. It’s an instinctive series of movements that starts with him touching my arm, and ends with his hands behind his back, both pinned in one of mine, while my knife is pressed against his throat, tipping his chin back and pushing just hard enough to bite in and leave a small trickle of blood running down to his collarbone.
“What did I say before? Treat me like your nan’s fucking wedding crystal. Look, but don’t touch. I know I’m pretty, but you may appreciate me with your eyeballs only unless I say otherwise. Which I won’t.”
He isn’t fighting me. Which is nice, because while I can take on someone that has the extra height and weight on me, I already fought and fucked today, so I’m more interested ingetting something to eat and taking a nap than repeating the situation.
Although, the curve of his ass is muchcurvierthan I was subconsciously expecting, and my hips are pressed up against it because of the way I’m holding him. He has a rugby-player ass. And rugby-player thighs, I notice when I let myself glance down. They’re trying to bust out of those jeans like two wet pythons in a burlap sack. Fuck me sideways, how did I not notice that before?
Get to fuck, this man is distracting.
Unfortunately, all the sexy thoughts just rattled around inside my head like shoes in a tumble dryer, and I’ve forgotten what I was supposed to be pissed about. He’s still completely tense beneath me though, and I don’t want to lose my air of violent mystery, so I can’t let myself back down.
On a whim, I lean forward and pull my knife away, licking the line of blood from the divot of his collarbone all the way up to the sharp, stubble-rough line of his jaw.
He tastes like iron and sweat, and for a brief second, I feel like I’ve stepped into an old Western. Or at least a porno of an old Western. I was expecting him to be disgusted by the movement, but instead, he lets out a little gasp that’s reminiscent of the noises he made while I was riding him, and it only makes me want to do it again.
Now I really am sidetracked. I release his wrists and shove him away from me before I can crawl any further down this rabbit hole and end up suckling on his neck like a horny bat.
Looking stunned, it takes him a few steps to catch his balance. His hand flies to his neck to where I cut him, his eyes widening even more when he sees the blood come away on his fingers and confirms for himself exactly what I just did, but then he holds both his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture.
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to get your attention. I didn’t mean to piss you off and cause all of… whatever that was.”
Oh yeah. That’s what I was pissed about. He touched me.
Normally, the lingering discomfort would still be front and center in my thoughts, but it had been swiftly derailed by all my delicious thoughts about blood and rugby thighs.
Odd, but understandable.
Before I can get distracted again, I force myself to focus on the task at hand.
