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I freeze, watch as he slides the blade under a lock of hair. He flicks his wrist and the strand slices clean through before it drifts to the floor. Heat flushes my skin; my core clenches. My nipples grow impossibly hard, and damn it, I can’t understand this crazy response to his screwed-up gesture. I mean, I’ve always known my tastes are a bit out there. They would have to be to mesh with the goth side of me, the one that is attracted to everything dark and beautiful. Like him.
He flattens the blade against the side of my face, draws it down without breaking skin, down my neck, down to the valley between my breasts.
My nipples continue to tighten, until they are painful points. My breasts seem to swell. Moisture gathers between my legs, and his nostrils flare.
"That turns you on, hmm?"
"Of course, not." My voice cracks and his grin widens.
“If I were to check between your legs, would I find you wet, Beauty?
Yes. Yes."No." I shake my head.
"You know what?" he says in a conversational tone. "I am tired of you lying to me, sweetheart."
He retracts his hand, flips his knife so he’s holding it with the handle face up, the blade pinched between his fingers. He pulls back his thigh, only to replace it with the handle of the blade.
"Wh…what are you doing?" I squeak.
"What do you think?" He nudges the handle of the blade against my entrance and goosebumps pop on my skin.
"Michael," I whisper, "don’t."
"Tell me you don’t want this, Beauty. Tell me that depraved part of you inside that I’ve sensed does not want to know how it feels to ride a knife handle."
No. No.I nod and his entire body tenses. His jaw tightens, his chest planes seem to harden, and his shoulders seem to grow wider, filling my line of sight.
Heat flushes my skin and my toes curl. I curve my fingers into fists at my sides, hold his gaze as he fits the handle of the knife into my melting slit. He thrusts up and into me and I gasp. My heart begins to race and my pulse pounds at my temples. Why is this very obscene, very kinky action of his such a turn on? It shouldn’t be. I should be repulsed. I should be crying out, asking him to stop. Telling him he can’t insert a weapon into the most delicate part of me. I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out. Instead, I part my legs wider, bend my knees, and push down on the handle. Too much, too thick. My lips part, a groan trembles from my mouth, and I wheeze.
His gaze intensifies and the skin around eyes tightens. "Fuck." He groans, "F-u-ck, Beauty. “
He winds his fingers around the nape of my neck, brings me close enough for my breasts to press into the fabric of his shirt. He urges me to tip my chin up, as he glares into my eyes. His pupils are dilated, the black filling his iris until only a dark blue circle remains around the circumference. A lock of his dark hair falls over his forehead. A strand of grass clings to the thick strands, reminding me of the fall I had taken so very recently. He looks like someone on the verge of coming undone, and somehow, the thought fills me with a gnawing need. The emptiness swells in my belly, crawls up my spine, and I raise my palm, press it into his cheek.
"Michael," I whisper, "fuck me with your knife handle."
Embers spark in his eyes. He bares his teeth, grips the back of my neck even harder, then he pulls the knife handle out, only to slide it back inside. A groan spills from my lips. He dips his head, places his mouth so close to mine, his nose bumps mine, his eyelashes brush mine.
Jesus… This… When he does this. When he watches me with so much intensity that it feels like he’s crawling his way inside me, when he peers into my eyes as if he’s searching for my hidden depths, as if he means to solve me, decimate me, rip me apart and put me back together in a fashion that makes so much more sense to him, to me.
He pulls out the knife, then slides it up inside me again, deeper, deeper, and my thighs tremble. My breasts swell further. My knees seem to almost give way and I grip his biceps, feeling the rock-hard muscle push back, unyielding to my touch. And it’s so damn erotic. The heat of his body around me, the toughness of his body under my palms, the hard length that he’s inserted up between my legs—that somehow symbolizes exactly how screwed up this…whatever connection is there between us, is.
He continues to fuck me with the knife handle, and heat crawls up my spine. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, dampens my palms at the point of contact of where I am still holding onto his shirt sleeve covered biceps.
He glances down his nose at my mouth as he weaves the knife handle in and out of me, in and out. The trembling begins at my toes, sweeps up my thighs, coils in my belly. "Oh," I gasp, "oh, my god."
My eyelids flutter as I tense, my muscles lock in preparation as I hurl faster, closer, to that edge.
"Michael," I gasp, "please…."
"Eyes on me," he snaps and I crack open my eyelids to stare into that blackness that swirls in his eyes. The blue, like chipped ice around the edges, promises me that, even if I manage to conquer his blackness, I’ll slip and fall through the icy surface, to an uncertain end, from which I won’t return without being changed.
"What are you doing to me?" I whisper as his lips twist.
He pulls out the knife, slides it up and into me one last time, hitting a spot deep inside that I didn’t know existed. A moan bleeds from my lips, and he bares his teeth, "Come for me, Beauty. Come all over my knife."
