I watch her eyes as she works, the way the deep honey swirls in her irises look extra light, lit up with precise focus as she barely blinks. She handles the skull with care, moving it gently, gingerly, from side to side as she takes a toothbrush to every facet, clearing away the gunk. Her hands are steady, head tilting every so often as she assesses each side of the animal to ascertain cleanliness.
And I can’t help but notice how perfectly that one-piece set of coveralls fits her, molding to each of her curves like they’re just as on display as all the skulls that surround us. My eyes carry greedily over every inch of her as she bends over the steel table, the canvas fabric hugging the shape of her ass and hips, showcasing the swell of her tits.
I turn away from her as she works, focusing again on the skulls and paintings on the wall, giving her quiet while she continues studiously behind me. But I barely manage to focus at all, too busy trying to force out the fact I know what she looks like when she’s masturbating. And trying to convince myself that I don’t think it’s sexy seeing this side of her. In her element. In this totally bonkers hobby she has that she’s obviously very practiced at.
It's not sexy seeing her line up the tools she knows she’s going to need next, and it’s not adorable the way I can see her brow crease even through the gas mask when she’s super focused on making sure a hairline fracture in the skull is absent of skin tissue. It’s not mesmerizing seeing the way she takes a rotting animal carcass and turns it into a piece of art, preserving theanimal and capturing the way it looked when it was alive and well in its natural environment.
It's not any of those things, I continue convincing myself. Because Chloe Stark is dangerous.
Right?
Thirty minutes later, she lets out a deep groan, standing straight again and stretching her body. She places her hands at the base of her spine, arching back, letting her face fall toward the ceiling, and Idon’timagine the tips of my fingers running along the skin of her neck. Weaving into her hair and pulling her lips against mine. Feeling the soft, wet swirl of her tongue in my mouth.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, breaking into my thoughts. “I forgot you were here. You probably need to get home.”
“It’s okay.”
She eyes me cautiously, and then makes quick work of cleaning up her workstation, washing her arms to her elbows and sanitizing her tools in the deep industrial sink at the back of the room before putting everything back in its home.
I trail behind her back up the staircase and into the garage, following her lead as she removes her gas mask and hangs it on a hook next to the door. Her skin is flushed, red suction marks outlining her eyes, forehead, and nose. She washes her hands again in the sink in front of the Suburban and then urges me to do the same. As I’m drying my hands on the towel hanging from the rack next to the sink, she moves quickly around me, swooping my own set of handcuffs around my wrists and handcuffing me to the rack.
“What the fuck, Stark?” I growl, yanking my hands against the rack that appears to be attached to the wallverysturdily. She giggles behind me, amused.
“You’re not the only one with quick hands, detective,” she whispers close to my ear. My body breaks out in chills, the smell of her perfumeinvading the logical part of my brain. “You stole my keys from my purse at the bowling alley. You broke into my house.”
I let out a short breath of a laugh through my nose. She’s not asking, but I’m not going to give her any more than she’s implying. I’m not going to tell her I planted cameras and watched her masturbate all weekend.
“Yes,” I say instead.
“Why?”
The fact that I’m facing the wall and I can’t see the look on her face is slightly unnerving. But I don’t let it stop me from being honest.
“I was looking for proof,” I admit.
“Of what?”
I crane my neck to attempt a look back at her, but she’s just out of sight, I can just see the edge of her arms crossed over her chest.
“Of…criminal activity.”
“And did you find any?”
I grunt, yanking on my chained wrists again. “No.”
She hums, almost sarcastically, like she already knew that was going to be my answer. I can hear the sound of a long zipper behind me, turning to see her bending to step out of her coveralls in my peripherals.
“Are you afraid of me, detective?” she asks quietly.
The question makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Not because my answer is yes, but because the way she says it is so fucking sultry it makeseverythingon my body stand at attention. My cock throbs traitorously as she trails a finger down the center of my spine.
“No.”
She hums again, this time in acknowledgement, and then she’s between me and the wall, looking up at me from her knees.
“Let’s play a game,” she whispers, loosening the belt around my waist and tugging my slacks down to my ankles. She giggles again when it’s clearthat I’m hard as a rock inside my briefs, and I pull on the cuffs again, desperate for…I don’t know what.
“Well,I’mgoing to play,” she says, pulling my briefs down to my ankles. My cock literally twitches in her face when she runs her tongue across her lips like she’s going to devour every inch of me. “And if you want me to stop, you say stop and I will, ‘kay?”
