Page 118 of Dishonored

This woman would kill him.

Hurt him.

Defile him.

And he would let her.

Caesar felt that telltale heat in his gut, and the tightening in his balls. It shot to his spine a second before he grabbed tight to Aria’s hips and held her there, so he could come as deep as he could get inside her pussy. Though he thought she wouldn’t come again, she did in that moment. Softer than before, and with quieter, yet deeper moans—she came with a sob.

The relief was sweet.

But short.

They had other business, now.

Hadn’t they played enough?

“End him,” she whispered, still shaking.

He didn’t ask if she was sure.

Not if she wanted to do it.

None of it.

Caesar pulled away from Aria, and tucked himself back into his pants. He moved behind a struggling Raffe as Aria rounded the table. Her skirt was still pulled high, and she kicked those panties away.

Her hand snaked between her thighs where Caesar’s come was starting to leak from her cunt. She swiped her fingertips through her pussy as Caesar grabbed hold of the razor wire again, and pulled tight.

Aria kneeled down, and with his come on her fingertips and her gaze cold, she looked like retribution in the flesh.

Raffle turned red.

His air was gone.

“I’ll see you in hell, Raffe,” she said.

Hell was the only thing that was promised for people like them.

“Your father has been notified,” Cain said from the doorway.

Caesar passed his friend a look, and then nodded. “Thanks, man.”

“We’ll have to move again. Get her back to the mansion like your father wants.”

Aria looked to Caesar, but he didn’t have anything to say. At least, not yet. This hadn’t been a part of the plan that he let her in on. Frankly, this wasn’t his plan to begin with. This was something Angelo demanded.

“Close the door on your way out,” Caesar ordered.

“All right.”

Then, Cain was gone.

Caesar moved to the wet bar the second they were alone, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He sipped on it while Aria watched him from the foot of the bed in that way of hers. She was still simmering—still thinking too much.

About him.

About his secrets.