Page 13 of Spade

He nodded, head thrown back, neck stretched so the pulse flickered at his throat. If I were a monster, a vampire, I’d lean over and rip out his fucking jugular.

Instead, I leaned in and put my mouth to his ear. “Beg, you little bitch,” I said.

He whimpered. I laughed, low in my chest. If he heard it, he didn’t register it.

“Come on, Spade, harder you little cunt.” He loved that four-letter word but only used it when we were having sex, which wasn’t very often, at least in my opinion. Truth be told, I was ready to move on, find a man who could keep up with both my needs and my craziness.

I changed the angle, drove him into the mattress, and watched his face go slack. He kept his hands at my hips, but his grip softened, more desperate now, less confident. He was at the edge, the way people get when they realize they’ve given up more than they meant to. I recognized it because I’d been there, too. Not with him, but in other beds, other lives.

I heard the therapist in my ear, telling me nothing was my fault, that what happened to me as a child had shaped who I am today. Fuck that. I was shaping who I am today.

“Still close, my little bitch?” I asked.

“Almost there, cunt. Almost there.”

I slowed down, making him wait. He tried to buck his hips, but I locked him down, using my weight and leverage. He made a helpless noise, something between a sob and a curse. And he wondered why I was always calling him a little bitch.

I wished I could say he was one of those broken men who needed a good woman to fix him. But he wasn’t. He was a stand-in for the man whom I hoped would come into my life soon.

The knife glinted. I looked at it, then at him. He saw the shift in my eyes and tried to follow my gaze, but I snapped his chin back with two fingers.

“Eyes on me,” I said. “And don’t you fucking come, Eric.”

“Quit being a fucking tease and finish me.” Typical.

He obeyed. He always obeyed, keeping his eyes on me, the whites wide, the dark brown pupils dilating.

I let a long silence ride the tension, let him squirm under me, then I reached and palmed the knife’s handle. Cold steel, perfect fit. My heart didn’t change pace, but I felt the adrenaline in my teeth.

He saw it then—the knife in my hand, the small movement, the new variable in the equation. His eyes went wide, mouth open but silent.

“I didn’t agree to this shit,” he whined.

If it had been a dildo I was about to shove up his ass, he’d be grinning from ear to ear. But bring out a simple blade, and he’s a worse bitch than usual.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said.

I set the flat of the blade against his chest, just under the collarbone. He flinched. I pressed harder, not enough to cut, but enough that he felt the reality.

“What are you—” he said, but I cut him off by flexing my hips, drawing another moan out of him.

“I came to play,” I said. “Blow off some steam.”

I slid the blade down, slow and deliberate, to the center of his chest. The skin there was slick with sweat. I turned the edge and applied pressure, enough to leave a line. He froze, more animal than man, nostrils flaring.

“Get the fuck off me, Spade.” He squirmed like a little bitch. “I’m done with this shit.’

“Stay still,” I said. I thought about slapping him, something he actually enjoyed sometimes. I was guessing this was not one of those times.

Then he was so still I thought he’d stopped breathing. I drew a thin line, just enough to break the surface, right along his sternum. Red followed, lazy and thin. He shuddered.

“You—fuck—” he said, voice gone high. “What the fuck?”

“Stop moving before I really slice you up.”

I watched the blood bead up, then turned the knife and licked the flat side slowly. Copper, salt, and the taste of power.

He tried to push me off. Not with any real intent, just the instinct to get away.