HIS HAND SHOOTS out in defense, his mind sluggish, confused by this clusterfuck of a situation. His strong palm catches the edge of the cutter, and the sharp blade slices his skin, the pain quickly bringing reality to the situation. Suddenly his mind is clear, and he backhands her. The blow knocks her sideways, and her hands splay out, the cutters still tight in one hand. She blinks, her eyes opening, and scrambles to her feet, launching at him again. His feet slip on the floor as he tries to stand, and she is on him, the blade swiping in perfect precision through the air as he tries to shove her away and get some traction, tries to get off the damn floor. The blade catches his shoulder, slicing the fabric and dipping into his skin, hot pain searing through him for a brief moment. His hand finds her arm and grips it tightly, holding her in place, her face close to his, panting, eyes intense and full of hatred.
I am furious, my anger mounting as I wrestle with the man. This isn’t supposed to be how it happens; it doesn’t fit the daydreams that I savor like manna from heaven. Last time it had been different. Last time had been easy—my victim distracted, caught in an unprotected moment. The thought suddenly occurs to me that I might suck at killing; maybe my first experience was only a deadly fluke. I have always envisioned myself as a killing machine, finely tuned in all things lethal. I have massively overestimated my abilities. The realization devastates me, and in that one, weak moment of self-awareness, he flips me, straddling my body and throwing the box cutters, my prize, across the room.
Jeremy exhales. The weapon gone, they stare at each other, his body on top of hers, naked skin between his legs, her small breasts rising and falling with her panting breaths. She is beautiful, her eyes intelligent and large, her nose slightly imperfect, lips full and parted, high cheekbones framing her face. Dark hair surrounds her like a halo; she is exquisite in her madness. And that’s what he has to remember. Despite her breathtaking looks, she is trying to hurt him.
“Get the fuck off of me.” The voice is so familiar; he has cherished it for so long—soft and sweet—even when she is saying those words.
He shakes his head. “Not gonna happen.”
“I will scream bloody fucking murder if you don’t get up, and someone will come. You left the door wide open.”
He looks at the door, standing calmly open, the dim hall exposed, the damn box still sitting innocently outside the transom. He wonders how much time has passed since he tried the knob. One minute? Two? Five? It feels like a lifetime. He reaches forward, his weight pressing down harder on her body, and she squirms beneath him, pushing on his chest with weak arms, glaring at him with eyes of death. His fingers touch the door and he heaves; the door moves from the pressure, swinging softly and then clicking into place.
He grins down at her, pleased. “What exactly was your plan? To kill me?”
“You entered my home. I have the right to defend myself.”
“That wasn’t defense. That was fucking psychopath behavior. You were one step behind Hannibal Lecter with that shit.” He laughs nervously and fights a battle with his cock, willing it to soften. It ignores him, defiantly taking the other route. Her eyes flicker downward, and a slow smile crosses her face. Shit.
She moves slightly, her bare skin sliding against the rough cloth of his uniform, her eyes watching him. Then she arches, thrusting up against his cock, the pressure causing a groan to whisper from his lips, her eyes closing slightly as she bites her bottom lip.
A transformation, all in the course of thirty seconds. The wild, crazed look is gone, replaced with a sexual potency of the Jenna Jameson variety. She thrusts firmly beneath him, grinding her bare sex into him, driving his cock wild with need. Her eyes closed, head thrown back, small moans escaping—blissful, sweet sounds that pull him deeper into this insane rabbit hole. She reaches out, grabs his shirt, and tugs—softly, then harder when he doesn’t respond. His pants are stretched almost to the point of ripping, and he struggles to breathe normally, to act rationally. She opens her eyes slowly, lazily, and licks those perfect pink lips. “I need you so badly,” she whispers.
He almost does it. Almost hops off her perfect body, rips open the fly of his brown uniform, and drops back down on top of her, his cock posed at her wet opening, his hands ready to take her as his. But he waits. He watches her and tries to make sense of it all.
It is a performance that is certainly tempting, mind-blowing, three staggering times hotter than any fantasy he has ever had. But something is off, and as he watches her moan and convulse beneath him, he realizes the trap. It is staged, her deceit hidden behind one false layer of sensuality. He runs his hand lightly over the thin skin of her throat, at the sensitive place where her tendons intertwine in life-giving support. As much as he loves her flushed skin, her beautiful breasts, her moans of arousal, he wants to see behind the curtain of her performance even more. He wants to know what he is dealing with. He moves his hands closer and clenches them, squeezing tightly around her neck.