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I don’t actually know what she’s thinking. Probably that I want to kill her. But that’s the last thing I want to do.

I drop down to kneel in front of her and prop one leg on my shoulder. Her fear makes her pliable. Or maybe it’s her desire. I can smell that too, hot and musky, as I settle myself between her legs and run my tongue along her slit with a long, delicious lick.

She screams, but there’s no fear in it. Not a single drop.

I press my tongue up into her cunt, plunging it in and out of her. I want to suck on her clit, but I know I need to go slow if Iwant to get a fourth orgasm. And Iwantthat fourth orgasm. I want to hear her begging me to stop, that it’s too much. I want her trembling and quaking against my mouth. I want her to die in that way that means I won’t lose her forever.

“Why?” she says weakly. “Why do you keep…”

She doesn’t finish her question, and I don’t bother to answer her. I just lick her faster, lapping up every drop of her wetness, one hand braced against the thigh flung over my shoulder. My cock throbs, and I know if I don’t take care of it, I’m going to be too tempted to fuck her. So, as I eat her, slow and teasing, I pull my dick out, moaning a little when the cool air of the cabin hits my burning skin.

My perfect prey moans too, her hips rocking against my face. It’s involuntary; she accompanies each buck with a panty, “It’s too much. It’s too much.”

But she doesn’t ask me to stop.

I stroke myself as I move away from her sweet, fluttering pussy and up to her clit. As soon as my lips brush against it, she jolts and cries out with a choking sob. It’s the most beautiful fucking sound in the world, and I squeeze my cock tighter, quicken my strokes, and strum her clit with my tongue.

She goes wild, whole body thrashing, her fingers tugging so hard on my hair that it hurts a little, which just pushes me closer to my own release. “Please,” she keens. “It’s too much. I can’t—Oh my fucking god.”

When I hear the tremor of tears in her voice, my lust surges up in me, as hot and thick as blood. I wrap my lips around her hard, throbbing clit and suck, tongue flicking over that perfect little nub. She moans with pleasure, but she’s crying, too, whimpering and gasping, and it’s the crying that pushes me over the edge. My balls tighten up against my cock and then my orgasm tears through me, pulsing and bright. I groan against her cunt as hot cum erupts through my fingers and splatters on the kitchen tile.

“I can’t,” she’s still gasping, still rocking against me, her voice still ragged with tears. “It’s too much. I can’t. I?—”

She comes. After four times I know what her body feels like when she does, the way her entire pussy contracts and her thick, strong legs start shaking. She screams, arching her spine against the counter, her hand yanking so hard on my hair that I sigh at the pain. I lick her through it, the way I did the first time, relishing every sobbing moan. Only when she sags down do I pull away, giving her some peace.

I’m not sure if she even notices. She slumps against the counter, legs splayed and shaking, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. I stand up, tuck myself back inside my jeans, wipe the cum off my fingers. Then I step closer to her and put a hand on her thigh.

She jolts at my touch and looks up at me. Tears streak over her face, glistening like jewels. “I can’t take it anymore,” she tells me, her desperation clear. “If you’re going to kill me, just fucking kill me.”

I lean over her, drinking in how fucking perfect she looks: her pale skin flushed red, her eyes glassy with tears, her hair wild. I did that to her. I did all that to her, and she’s still alive for me to do it again.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

She blinks at me, her lower lip trembling. The desperation softens into confusion, and I cup her face to run my thumb over her tear-dampened cheeks. In the bright kitchen lights, I can see the mottled bruises around her eye and throat more clearly. Over on the couch, the light was dim, and they had been less noticeable.

I lean over her and kiss her cheek. Or intend to; I can’t stop myself from licking her tears away. The saltiness reminds me of blood.

She stiffens beneath me. But she doesn’t try to pull away.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.

I pull away from her. Smooth my hand over her hair. “Because I’ve been dreaming of it for fifteen fucking years.”

Her eyes widen, and I scoop my hand behind her head and pull her up so that she’s standing. She stares at me, shaking her head a little. I half-expect her to go for the knife in my belt but she doesn’t, and that just makes my heart get all tight and strange in my chest.

I run my fingers over the dark skin beneath her eye. She jerks away. Looks away, too.

“Who did this?” I ask, then drop my hand to trail along her throat. “And this?”

Something seems to wash through her. It’s kind of like fear, but not fear of me. I can tell that much. My muscles tense. I’m worried she won’t tell me, because I need to know. And if she won’t tell me, I’ll have to find a way to get it out of her.

But then she answers. “My hus—my ex-husband.”

Fire surges in my chest. “Your husband did this to you? Did he hit you?”

“Yeah.” She crosses her arms over her chest, hiding her gorgeous tits from me. But then she peers up through the tangle of her hair, kind of shy, and I like that better. “Yeah, he hit me. And worse.”

Worse. I know what those bruises around her throat mean. Anger simmers inside me.