Page 187 of What We Burn

In the suite beyond the glass, a man is bound to a chair while two women take him apart with their hands and mouths, slow and methodical. He’s blindfolded, head tipped back, every muscle in his body straining against the restraints. The women are communicating without words—a touch here, a glance there, adjusting their rhythm to keep him right at the edge without tipping over.

Fury’s reflection is very still. Her hand has drifted to her throat, fingers tracing the bare skin where the choker usually sits.

She senses me before she sees me in the reflection. Her mouth quirks. She doesn’t turn.

“You gonna stare all night or come inside?” she asks, eyes locked on the suite.

“Depends,” I say, voice low. “You planning to behave?”

“Never.”

I step inside. The door seals behind me, cutting the club noise down to nothing. Only the man’s low moan comes through the glass.

Fury doesn’t look away. She shifts until my chest meets her shoulder.

“She’s about to make him beg,” Fury says, gesturing with her chin as one of the women slides her hand along the man’s inner thigh, nails raking lightly. The other is at his ear, mouthing something filthy, her lips moving with slow, soft sadism. “You ever been edged so long you thought you’d die?”

“Thought, maybe,” I say. “Never gotten close enough to believe it.”

“I’d believe it,” she says. “If it was you tying me up.”

I close the last inches between us and run my hands up her arms, pinning them lightly against the glass. Her eyes meet mine in the reflection.

“Hands above your head,” I say.

Her pulse hammers at her throat, but she does it. Lifts both hands to the top of the glass, wrists crossed, breath coming faster.

Behind the one-way glass, the two women alternate their attention between the man’s nipples, thighs, and cock. He squirms, hips grinding into the seat, desperate for more.

I watch Fury’s reflection. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, the flush moving down her throat and into the deep V of the black dress.

I drag my tongue along the shell of her ear, making her shiver.

I hold her there, her breath hitching as much from the tension as from the slow-motion show on the other side of the glass. I could take her right here—dress up, heels on, wrists pinioned—but it’s more fun to make her stew in it. More fun to see what she does when it’s all right there and I’m the only one who can give it to her.

She’s watching the man now, and her head falls back onto my shoulder. “You want to tie me like that?” she whispers, just loud enough to make it a dare.

“I want to do worse, Fury.” I close one hand around both wrists and lean into the curve where her jaw meets her neck. “You want a taste of what he’s getting?”

“Only if it’s truly worse,” she whispers.

“Careful, Fury. That sounds like a challenge.”

Her eyes flutter closed as I pin her harder to the window, one hand lifting her wrists higher so her body arches, helpless and offered in black fabric and nothing else. I drag the hem of the dress past her ass, baring her to the cool air.

She sucks in a breath, about to taunt or beg or bite, but the man in the chair comes loudly and violently.

Fury uses the distraction to twist free.

I let her.

Sometimes the best part of hunting is when the prey thinks she has a shot.

She yanks her dress down as she runs, wrenches the door open—and slams straight into Eli’s chest.

“Little savage,” he says, steadying her by her upper arms. “Seems you’ve been a very bad girl tonight.”

FORTY-EIGHT