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I don’t follow his gaze, but I do feel the tip of the knife run down my arm, and I know exactly what he’s looking at.
“You know a lot of knife experts, Lynch?” he asks, eyes moving from my arm to my face. “Or are you the one who’s good with a blade?”
He lays the flat of the blade against my skin and scrapes, the blade moving over the scars on my arms.
I try not to have any regrets in life, but my scars are the one thing I wish I could change. They are a reminder of why I can never give up on hunting Richard Thornton, why I need to make sure I don’t rest until I destroy him. But I hate them, and if I could erase them from my skin like so many lines in the sand, I would.
Maybe that’s why Luca is so obsessed with my scars. Maybe the animal part of Luca, that predatory, blood-thirsty side, senses this weakness in me. Or maybe he’s just a sicko with a fetish for pain.
“Give me my knife back,” I tell him softly, “and I’ll show you.”
He laughs, pulls the knife away and then, to my complete surprise and absolute horror, he leans forward and kisses my shoulder.
Not a bite, not a lick. Nothing mocking or cruel. Luca’s lips are as soft and cool as the touch of a snowflake. He kisses my skin with that same horrible tenderness as he did back in the fencingsalle, and my entire body is ripped through with a shudder of disgust.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice tight.
Luca smiles against my shoulder, moves lower down my arm, tracing a line of delicate kisses down the track of scars. He kisses me with unbearable lightness, like starlight falling on night-blooming flowers. The moment is abhorrently intimate, a pantomime of tenderness and affection, a distorted facsimile of love.
And then his kisses move back up my arm, across my shoulder, and his mouth finds my neck. There, his lips linger, his kisses become long and wet. Still, he’s full of that same tenderness that makes me shake with horror. I clench my thighs together, desperate to push away the throbbing between my legs, the wetness trickling there.
I don’t want to be turned-on by Luca. I’ll fight him and hurt him, I’d even fuck him if I needed to, but I refuse to let him make me feelpleasure.
Luca pushes on my knees. His mouth is still tracing wet kisses up the column on my neck as he parts my thighs with inexorable strength. He kisses the corner of my jaw and places his lips to my ear to speak softly.
“All this violence between us, Lynch.” He brushes his mouth over the shell of my ear. “Don’t you like this better?”
He slides his mouth across my cheek to my mouth, but I turn my head away.
“It feels like I’m being molested by a scorpion.”
“Liar.” He laughs, a soft sound like a cool slither against my skin. He’s kneeling between my legs now, his body forcing my thighs apart, and his hands have slowly moved from my thighs to my waist. His touch is feather-light and somehow a hundred times more intimidating than if he were bruising me. “Don’t you want to see howniceI can be?”
I shake my head, but his hands are gently pushing my waist to him, and he’s lowering his mouth to my breasts, where he drops a delicate rainfall of small kisses. My entire body is shaking as if I’m cold, but my skin feels so hot I could burst into flames.
“You’re not nice,” I snap, cringing as far back against the chair as I can get. “You’re the fucking devil.”
“Can’t I be both?” He speaks with his mouth right over my heart, his breath ghosting over my skin and leaving a flurry of goosebumps in its wake. “Satan himself was once an angel.”
I don’t generally letmy disdain of men interfere with fucking. Fucking is a simple, necessary thing, like eating or breathing. We all have to fuck at one point or another. I prefer to keep my fucking rough and fast and uncomplicated.
But there is nothing rough or fast or uncomplicated about the way Luca treats me. With a knife at his disposal and my hands tied behind my back, the fucker still chooses tenderness. He takes my nipples into his mouth delicately, sucks only hard enough to send electric bolts of pleasure through me but not enough to hurt, not even a little. His hand on my waist pulls me forward but doesn’t press; his fingers on my other breast tease the nipple between silk-soft fingers—the fingers of a man who’s never done a single difficult thing in his life.
He catches my nipple between his teeth and tugs ever so slightly, and I swallow back the moan rising in my throat. Releasing my nipple with a little flick of his tongue, Luca looks up at me, a dull glitter in his grey eyes like he’s drunk or drugged.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks in a murmur.
“It feelsdisgusting.”
“Hm.” He spreads my thighs and glances between my legs, where I can feel the wetness trickling out of me. “You get off on being disgusted, Lynch?”
“I get off on the thought ofyoudying a brutal death.”
“Is that what’s making you so wet?” He swipes a careless thumb along the length of my pussy, through my fishnets, without even looking down. “The thought ofme?”
His thumb slides over my clit—casually, effortlessly, almost as if he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. But he knows exactly what he’s doing; I see it in the slight curling of his lip when he notices me twitch under his touch.
I close my eyes and bargain with myself. So what if his hand feels good, right? A dildo would feel good—hell, a fuckingpillowwould feel good at the right angle. This doesn’t have to mean anything.
