My gaze flicks up to meet Grayson’s as hunger stirs low. The pang builds, ravenous, a need demanding to be fed. He steps around the pool of blood, eyes locked on mine, driving that ache deeper as he claims his next victim.
He stalks me like a hunter, like he’s starving, dropping the blade before he captures my hips and hauls me up into his arms. God, I’m so close already. Trembling, on the brink, barely able to hold onto his shoulders as he moves us toward the container.
His movements are primal, driven by pure need as he lays me back on the cold steel, pushing my skirt up with a rough touch, his fingers trailing blood in their wake. In one swift motion, my skirt and panties are dragged down my thighs.
He doesn’t ask—he doesn’t need to. The question of whether I’m aroused by our kill is answered the moment he tastes me, my body giving him proof where words fail.
We’re beyond language now, our desire only answered in flesh and blood, raw and carnal.
The second he drops between my thighs, his mouth surrounding me, I spike with need. A sharp pulse spears the ache deeper, a pain so pleasurable I grit my teeth as my muscles contract, my core clenching to be fulfilled.
Grayson looks up from between my legs as he consumes, watching the wave crest over me. I break with a single flick of his tongue, too stimulated to stop the crash. But I’m not sated. Far from it. The external orgasm only heightens my need to feel him inside me.
“I need you.” It comes as a breathy plea, but Grayson is already in motion to claim what’s his.
He braces a hand on the container as his other reaches for the closure of his jeans. I glimpse his hard length as he lowers the zipper, my sex throbbing with renewed want at the erotic sight.
“You taste like sin,mo anam cara,” he says as he settles heavy between my thighs. “Lift your hips.” Breathless, I comply, and he hooks an arm beneath my lower back, positioning me at the perfect angle to take him.
Unrestrained, Grayson enters me in one forceful thrust, sealing his mouth over mine to swallow my cry. I latch onto his neck, clinging to him as he fills me with deep, powerful thrusts. My thighs quiver from the impact, my breasts ache to feel the abrasive rub of his chest.
“God—fuck, you feel so fucking perfect,” he says on a rough groan.
He grips my hips and slams inside me again, rougher, harder, his kiss stealing air from my lungs. I work at his buttons, desperate to remove all barriers between us, just as he shoves my blouse up to reveal me fully.
Tugging at the collar, I break the kiss as I tear the shirt off his shoulders. Then I press my palm to his bare chest, feeling his warmth, fingers curling against lean muscle. My fingertips tracethe rough scars across his skin—the number of his kills—and an arousing tremor grips my body as he buries himself deep.
That frantic desperation returns, insatiable. The frenzy consumes us—more, closer,not enough. Never enough.
We fight to get closer, my chest seeking that vital friction. His groan ricochets through me as he grabs my backside and pulls me hard against him, lifting me off the steel.
Legs locked around his trim waist, I undulate my hips, riding him as he braces against the only solid surface to keep us from falling. It feels filthy, and raw, and like fucking perfection.
His fingers dig into my hair to gain a firm grasp as he meets each rock of my hips. “Goddamn, London,” he breathes. “You’re fucking breaking me.”
My body responds to his words, clenching around his cock, my nails raking down his back. “More,” I demand.
Anchoring his forearm around my back, he lifts me off the container as he slams inside me with wild, unhinged thrusts that strip his control. I muffle my moans against his neck, my teeth finding purchase in his skin, loving the way his pulse throbs against my tongue. The metallic trace of blood fills my mouth, and I’m not sure if it’s his or mine—if I broke his skin or bit my lip—but it’s enough to send us both over the edge.
“Fuck, London…” he groans, voice scraped raw. “You take me so well—like you were fucking made for me, baby.” His thumb swipes my lip, smearing the blood before he captures my mouth in a brutal kiss.
He lowers his head and bites into the swell of my breast, marking me deeper, as I relinquish a faint cry. We devour each other—a dare to bleed one another dry as fire rushes through our veins.
Pain is the only answer, the only sensation sharp enough to quench a hunger that pleasure alone can’t sate.
As something breaks loose inside him, Grayson hauls me away from the container, his back slamming against a support beam. His thrusts turn feral, unrestrained, driven by something maddening. My hand goes to his neck as I search for his racing heartbeat, and his eyes flare.
“Do it,” he challenges.
I tighten my grip around his throat, and he sinks to the floor, holding me tight as I straddle him, grind against him, fucking him with abandon, his pulse thundering beneath my palm.
Power.
The thrill of taking a life—of owning it—feeling it literally slip through your fingers?—
“Ah, fuck… Say you’re mine,” he demands, voice breaking on a rough groan. “Say you’re mine while I fill you, London.”
“You own me, Grayson—all of me is yours.”
