Page 87

I dip my fingers into my pussy, drawing out my arousal to slickagainst my clit. Heat builds in my core, and in the dark window, I watch myself writhe on the couch. My hips roll of their own accord, grinding down against my fingers. My legs tremble. I’m close?—

Lightning floods the yard and the house both with white, hot light. In the flash, I see the garden, with all my half-drowned plants.

But my killer’s gone.

As much as I want to keep going, I also want to keep playing the game. I snatch my hand away from pussy and sit up, pretending to be scared. “Who’s there?” I call out, my voice breathy like an actress in a scary movie.

A thump from somewhere deep in the house. For a moment, I smile, breaking character; he left the guest bedroom window unlocked.

“I’ll call the cops!” I cry out, skittering into the kitchen to grab the biggest chef’s knife we have.

Footsteps, slow and heavy. He’s in the hallway, but I know he likes it when I wait for him, my pussy wet and my hand clutching a knife.

I press my back up against the refrigerator door, brandishing the blade.

The footsteps draw closer.

And then he steps into the doorway. It doesn’t matter how many times we play this game, the sight of him like this always sucks the air out of my lungs and floods my pussy with heat. He’s wearing his leather jacket and dark jeans. And his mask, of course, stained with old blood.

He twists his Bowie knife in his gloved hand so it catches the track lighting and throws bright dots into the kitchen.

“Who are you?” I cry, holding up my own knife.

He steps into the kitchen, dripping rainwater all over the tile.Hewill be cleaning that later. But both of us have other things on our minds right now.

“I told you, I’ll call the police.” I put a breathy tremble into my voice, the way he likes. He steps closer to me, and I can feel him drinking me in, breathing in the scent of my skin, listening to the sound of my pulse.

“Mister, I don’t?—”

He doesn’t let me finish. Before I fully realize what’s happening, he’s wrenched both of my hands over my head, his leg pressed up between my thighs. I whimper, grind my aching pussy down on his cold, rain-soaked jeans.

My knife clatters to the kitchen floor. His knife presses up against my throat.

“What are you going to do to me?” I whisper.

His eyes burn black behind his mask.

Then he shoves me down to my knees.

He holds me in place, one hand pressed against the top of my head and the other still holding the knife lazily against my throat. I know that on the surface, this looks exactly like what Scott did to me. But it’s not the same. When it’s Sawyer, the act transforms into something that makes me whole again.

“Put my cock in your mouth,” he orders, his voice graveled and deep. Desire bursts in me like the lightning, and I fumble at the jean’s fly, pulling the zipper down with excited, shaking hands. Sawyer presses the tip of the blade just a little deeper into my skin. I know what it means.Hurry.

His cock is rock-hard, heavy with lust—the way it always is after he kills. I wrap my lips around the head, feigning hesitation.

I’m punished with a small, delicate swipe of his knife. Blood pools and then streaks down my neck. I nearly come on the spot.

“Put my fucking cock in your fucking mouth.”

This time, I do as he says, sliding him over my tongue, drawing as much of him into my throat as I can. I can’t take him fully, not at this angle, but he tilts his hips a little, rocking forward until his swollen cockhead presses against the back of my throat.

“Suck,” he orders.

I do. I’ve been waiting for this since he left, this sign that he’s alive, that he made it through another kill unscathed. His cock tastes of rainwater and the salty tang of his sweat and precum, and I slide my mouth along his thick girth, trying to draw him in deeper. He holds the knife carefully, close enough that I can feel its cold steel but not so close there’s any risk of him cutting me.

Sawyer groans and presses his hand more firmly against the top of my head, his fingers like a spiderweb. He rolls his hips just enough to make me whimper with need. My pussy is screaming to be filled—and with more than just my fingers.

But in this game, I can’t ask for what I want. In this game, Sawyertakes.