Her eyes search mine. She takes a breath. Holds it. Lets it out with her words. "Why… why don't you check for yourself."
I almost come. Right there. With nothing but her request to spur it. But I hold it in because finally—finally—it's happening.
I've found someone.
Someone just like me.
Someone not only willing to balance the scales, but to take payment in a way that breaks all the rules.
Just like her story.
I slide my hand down her stomach. Across the waistband of her panties. And then inside.
Fuck.
She's drenched.
Not wet. Not aroused.Drenched. Her pussy is soaked, slick heat coating my fingers the instant I touch her. I have to close my eyes. Have to force myself to breathe through my nose, slow and controlled, because my cock is already twitching and I'm dangerously close to losing it right here with nothing but my hand in her underwear.
She killed a man. She pulled the trigger and watched him die. And her pussy is dripping for it.
I open my eyes and find her watching me. Waiting. Her lips parted, chest heaving, blood drying on her face in dark streaks.
"Good girl," I whisper.
She moans.
The sound breaks something in me. I push two fingers inside her, curling them, and she gasps, her hips bucking forward to meet my hand. She's so wet I can hear it—the obscene squelch of her pussy clenching around my fingers as I fuck her with them.
"You're just like me," I tell her. "You've always been just like me."
"Caleb—" Her voice cracks.
I pull my hand out of her panties and bring my fingers to my mouth. Her taste explodes across my tongue—salt, and musk, and something darker underneath. Something that tastes like adrenaline and fear and the blood-bright edge of death.
I drop to my knees.
The concrete is cold and hard, and Ryan's blood is spreading toward us in a slow creep, and I don't care. I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and drag them down her thighs. She steps out of them, and then she's bare from the waist down, standing in nothing but her coral sports bra with a dead man three feet away.
I spread her pussy lips apart with my fingertips and press my tongue into her sick arousal.
She cries out, her hands flying to my head, fingers tangling in my hair. I lick into her, tasting that same darkness, that same violence. My tongue finds her clit and I suck it between my lips, and she makes a sound that's almost a scream.
I eat her like I'm starving. Like she's the only thing that's ever mattered. My tongue works her clit while my fingers push back inside, two and then three, stretching her open. She's grinding against my face now, fucking my mouth, and I can feel her thighs trembling against my cheeks.
"Caleb—Caleb, I'm going to?—"
I pull back.
She whimpers, desperate and broken, and I stand up and take her by the hair. I pull her head back so she's looking up at me, and then I guide her down. She goes willingly, sinking to her knees on the blood-spattered concrete, and when I press my cock against her lips she opens her mouth without being told.
I push inside.
Her mouth is hot, and wet, and perfect. I slide deeper, feeling her throat flutter around me, and she gags but doesn't pull away. I hold her there, my cock buried in her throat, and I look down at the blood smeared across her forehead, her cheeks, her chin.
She's the spitting image of the tattoo on my sternum. The one crafted by Posie Little herself. The girl who just got justice.
"Take my cock," I tell Scarletta. "Take all of it."
