Page 9 of Spitfire

"Sooo... fucking... tight," I grit between my clenched teeth, giving her a moment to adjust to my long, thick length, before I pull back to the tip and slam inside her again and again. Her sweet wetness coats my length from root to tip, and the corner of my lip pulls up with amusement at the knowledge that she wants this as much as I do. The sounds of our skin slapping against each other are loud and obscene, and compete with Scarlett's desperate gasps. The table begins to shift and screech against the linoleum flooring in time with my strokes. "That's it, baby, you're taking me so well. My perfect slut."

Her pussy contracts and tightens around me, making my eyes roll to the back of my head as her body begins to push against me, urging me to fuck her faster and harder. "Good girl, taking everything I have to give you. I'm going to fill you to the brim with my cum, and you're going to thank me on your knees while cleaning my cock, Scarlett."

A door slamming yanks me from my naughty thoughts, and I'm dragged back into the here and now, as I glance around the rapidly filling office in a moment of confusion. "Fuck," I swallow my groan and discreetly adjust my hard, aching cock. Equal parts frustration and fascination roll through me at the interruption. Jesus Christ, what the fuck is the matter with me? I clench my jaw hard enough to make it ache. This woman is becoming a goddamn occupational hazard. I need to get some semblance of control, or I'll end up risking my career over her, and that would be ludicrous. No pussy is worth that, not even Scarlett's.

My phone vibrates against my palm before I can dwell on the dangerous direction of my thoughts, and breaks me out of my obsession with all things involving Scarlett's pretty pussy. The screen flashes: Dr. Stephens.

"Garnier," I growl into the phone, and the gravel in my voice surprises even me. I'm half annoyed that reality has had the audacity and impertinence to interrupt my daydreams, and relieved because I know they will lead to nothing except blue balls and fury.

"I think I've found something." The excitement in Stephens' tone slices cleanly through the fog in my head, and dispels all stray thoughts of fucking Scarlett Lyssa. "You need to come down to the morgue."

My pulse steadies as my fingers tighten around the phone, almost to the point of crushing it. "Is it Ashmaker?"

There's a brief pause where all I can hear is Stephens' heavy breaths. "I think you should see this for yourself."

I don't wait for another word, ending the call and already moving towards the doorway without a backward glance. Whatever Stephens has found is important enough to pull him away from his usual detached professionalism. That alone sets every instinct on edge, and sends a bolt of excitement racing through me. As I shove my phone into my pocket, one thought refuses to loosen its grip.

If Scarlett really did run off chasing this killer alone... Then, for the first time since this investigation began, I'm not worried she'll miss the arrest. I'm worried Ashmaker has already found her.

Fuck. Where are you, Scarlett?

SEVEN

XAVIER

"FUCK!"

The curse tears from my throat as the taillights disappear into the rain, swallowed by the city before I can force my legs to move any faster.

Too soon. You showed yourself too soon.

My boots splash through filthy water as I sprint deeper into the alley, lungs burning, every instinct screaming that something has shifted tonight after watching the amber flecks of the brake lights disappear into the distance. Something is wrong, not with the hunt, with Ashmaker. How could Ashmaker be so reckless?

For months now, I've watched from the shadows while justice unfolded exactly as it should, with growing pleasure deep within my chest. Every strike has been measured, every movement deliberate. Every single sinner has been reduced to nothing but smoke, death, and regret. It's been beautiful and sacred, the perfect moments between us. The ones where I was always ready, always complete.

If anyone had ever dared interfere, I would have stepped from the darkness without hesitation and easily dispatched them back to hell. That has become my sole purpose. Not to lead, or to judge, but to protect, because someone must keep Ashmaker safe. I can't allow anything to go wrong when they're out committing their holy work.

Tonight, fuck... tonight the rhythm was wrong. There was a stillness to them tonight, almost as if they were not wholly present in their actions, but were instead going through the motions.

The first plunge of the blade still stole my breath with its elegance and precision. A perfect brushstroke across a living canvas, a masterpiece. George Weston sang exactly as expected, his pain-filled voice filling the rainy night sky as he begged and cried. The disgusting coward dared to promise God things God had already stopped listening to, and would never grant a devil like him.

Yet, the music somehow felt flat, as if Ashmaker's movements lacked their usual conviction. The blade found flesh, and justice was delivered, but there was no communion, no reverence. No, instead, there was only routine and obligation. It was like watching an artist paint from memory, after forgetting why they ever loved the canvas. It was empty, and that made my chest tighten painfully.

It lacked energy and conviction. They were a shell, not whole, not like us.

No... no, no... that isn't possible. Ashmaker doesn't hesitate. Ashmaker doesn't doubt. Unless... The thought curls around my spine like cold skeletal fingers, as a wave of dread and uncertainty floods my veins. They're breaking... my stomach knots with the brutal thought.

No, that cannot happen. Not now, not after everything I've done. Our work isn't finished... our work... I can't allow our connection to be severed. This joint holy communion, it belongs to us. It's bred into both our skin, and it runs in viscous crimson rivers through our veins. It is who and what we are. Ashmaker and I are the same. We are one.

Ours? A laugh echoes somewhere inside my skull. Since when?

I stagger to a stop, as the rain runs into my eyes, and my hands curl into tight fists until the leather gloves creak.

You had a purpose before Ashmaker. The voice is patient and mocking. You hunted long before they existed. You were deadly before Ashmaker.

"I... I still hunt."

No. It chuckles, the sound causing rage to bubble just below the edges of my sanity. You clean.