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Fifty-Two
Camille
A sharp cryescaped me as Brennan ran his knife along the outer length of my thigh.
The fabric of my skirt parted like butter, and I moaned as I felt the tip whisper over my skin, close enough to leave a mark but I knew he wouldn’t.
Brennan bit.
He sucked.
He didn’t cut me.
My back arched against the blue baize of the new pool table, and I moaned again when he hooked one of my heels in the bottom right pocket and the other in the bottom left.
Legs spread, the now useless skirt flopped between my thighs until he lifted the flap and shoved it against my stomach, revealing lacy cream panties that had him groaning.
My eyes stayed on his face, remained on the rigidity of his features that showed a tension which had been present since we’d stepped foot on his parents’ compound.
Something had happened, though.
Something specific.
Something he didn’t want to tell me about. And whatever it was, it made his expression stern and his gaze somber.
A soft sigh escaped him, however, when he saw my panties, and I hissed when he pressed the flat of the blade in his hand against the gusset.
I felt that chill along my core and whimpered in response to that, and his rumbled, “So fucking wet for me, Camille.”
“Always wet for you,” I rasped, needing him to know that, hoping that it would give him some comfort.
He always comforted me. Always.
It hurt that he wasn’t letting me do and be the same source of harmony for him.
It was why I was here.
The pool table back at the Satan’s Sinners’ compound had been a place where clubwhores were often fucked. I’d seen women slipping pool balls into their asses, had seen hardcore sex take place on a surface that was anything but hygienic.
For no other man would I put myself in this position.
Not when the memories of my time with the Sinners were real and raw.
But he needed this. And this was something I could give him.
Reaching out, he snagged a finger beneath the crotch of my panties and pulled it away from my sex. A quick flick of his wrist and the blade tore through the expensive silk, and from the waist down, my clothes were left in shreds.
“I was hoping you’d be wearing a garter belt,” he said as he rubbed the knife’s handle against my clit.
The faint friction had my eyes flaring wide as he touched my most tender part with a deadly weapon.
I felt his volatility at that moment, and my mind began to war.
Life made me hesitate, doubt what was happening here. Experience told me he’d never hurt me, told me to trust him.
“You ran through my stockings,” I told him, voice breathy with a combination of nerves and need.
“I ran through them?”
