Page 39 of Bird on a Blade (Hunter’s Heart #1)

EDIE

SIX MONTHS LATER

R ain pummels against the big plate glass windows that look out at the beach. I’m curled up on the sofa, trying to read a novel. The storm’s too distracting, though. All that driving wind and torrential rain. I’m still not used to the thunderstorms here in Pensacola, which have all the crash and turmoil of hurricanes even though it’s April and, I’ve been told, hurricane season hasn’t started yet.

Thunder cracks overhead, making me jump, and I look up at my reflection in the windows, pale and transparent and streaked with raindrops. Sawyer’s out in this somewhere. Hunting.

“Storms are good,” he told me this evening, right at sunset, the light strange and glowing as the sun’s last rays struggled to break through the looming storm clouds. “Give me cover. Just like that snowstorm back in Virginia.”

Then he kissed me, his hand curled around my neck.

Then he was gone .

I flip another page of my book without reading any of the words on it. Look at the window again. During the day, in clear weather, I can see the Gulf of Mexico. But right now, I can’t even see our little backyard, all the tropical plants that I grow in heavy terra cotta pots. I’ve taken up gardening since we settled here. Because Edie Hensner has been missing six months and presumed dead, I can’t work; maybe someday, Sawyer will wrangle up a fake identity like the one he used to land a job on a construction site. But we don’t really need the money. The house I paid for with the cash from my secret bank account, and Sawyer’s work brings in enough for living expenses.

It’s a carnival mirror version of my old life with Scott. A curved, distorted reflection. Maybe a little eerie at first. But the more you look at it, the more beautiful it becomes.

Thunder booms, and the thin walls of the house shake. I throw my book aside and jump up, too jittery to read. A million worried thoughts flash through my head: Sawyer plowing his pickup truck into a black pool of deep floodwater. Sawyer in glittering silver handcuff. Sawyer shot in the head again, unable to drag himself back home to me.

I pace around the cozy living room, past my spider plants with their trailing, curling vines. Smoke, the little black cat Sawyer found when we were fleeing Virginia, skitters across my feet, as unnerved by the storm as I am.

“Smokies,” I call out, and she stops, looks at me with her big green eyes. Then she trots over and nudges her head up against my hand. She’s Sawyer’s cat, really; she sleeps curled up by his side every night. It wasn’t exactly a surprise when he told me he loved cats.

Still, she’ll tolerate me when he’s not around.

I scoop her up and snuggle her against my chest. Soft, calming purrs vibrate against my heart, even though the howling rain drowns them out.

“I know, I miss him, too.” I speak the words into her silky fur. “ But you know Sawyer. When he gets the urge, he just has to go hunting.”

Smoke mews in agreement.

“Just like you, I know, I know. But you don’t go hunting mice in a storm like this, do you?”

Immediately, a shattering bolt of thunder cracks the room in two, followed a second later by a searing lightning flash. Smoke leaps out of my arms, her fur standing up straight, and bolts back into the bedrooms. But I’m not worried about her.

A figure stands in the garden.

The lightning fades, and I can only see my reflection again. My pulse quickens—with fear, but with excitement, too.

“Did you make it home, my perfect Hunter?” I whisper.

I switch the overhead light off, plunging the room into darkness. The figure in the garden watches me through the glass, not moving. But he wears Sawyer’s killing face.

I smile and turn the light back on, throwing myself back on display. The rain lashes against the glass, but my Hunter is unbothered by it. He just watches me, waiting.

I know which game he wants to play.

I lay back down on the couch and slide my panties off, dropping them on the floor beside me. Then I press my dress hem up around my thighs, trace my fingers along my skin. I pretend I don’t know that Sawyer is out there, watching me, as I reach between my legs to massage my clit and feel the wetness already pooling in my cunt.

When I drop my head toward the window, all I can see is my reflection: my body splayed out, my legs spread. I arch my back and reach into my bra to squeeze at my breast, teasing my pebbled nipple. I can’t see Sawyer out there, but I know he’s watching the show I put on for him as I play at being the clueless victim in a horror movie, so intent on making herself come that she doesn’t hear the killer creep inside.

I dip my fingers into my pussy, drawing out my arousal to slick against 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. He will 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, Sawyer takes.

He thrusts deeper into my mouth, nearly choking me. I groan, knowing the vibration of my throat drives him crazy. I’m rewarded with a sharp, rattling clatter as he drops the knife to the tile.

“Jesus, you’re such a good little cocksucker.” His fingers tighten against my head, gathering my hair into his fist. His praise makes me whimper even as I’m choking on his dick.

He lets out a loud, raspy sigh and yanks his cock out of my mouth, a thin, glistening string of spit connecting me to him in the process. Then he pulls me up by my hair, pressing me against the humming refrigerator. I gaze up at his blood-splattered mask, wet lips parted, my body burning for him.

“I know you want this,” he growls. “With that little show you put on for me.”

I whimper like it’s not true—like I’m afraid, like I’m the first victim in one of those Blood Raisers movies. Sawyer shifts toward me, his cock digging into my thigh, and presses the rubber of his mask against the side of my face.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” He squeezes one of my breasts over my dress, running his thumb over my sharp nipple. “You want my big killer’s cock in that tight pussy of yours? ”

“No!” I cry, even though I’m currently humping his hip.

Sawyer chuckles, a raspy, ominous sound that drenches the inside of my thighs. Then he turns me around, pressing my cheek against the fridge. He knocks my legs apart and hikes my dress up around my waist, revealing my bare ass to the cool air of our house. I gasp out feigned protests, squirming my hips like I’m trying to escape. Sawyer grabs me hard, digging his fingers deep into my flesh, and forces me to go still.

He presses his cock against my entrance and laughs again.

“Oh, you are wet for me, my little victim.” Then he thrusts hard, shoving his full length inside my cunt. I scream in pleasure, arching back into him.

He drops all pretense the second he’s inside me. “Edie,” he moans against the back of my neck, his breath warm on my skin. “Fuck, I needed this.”

Then he fucks me, hard and fast and frantic. The sound of our slapping skin fills up the room. Sawyer grunts and bottoms out inside me, filling me so deeply that it’s almost painful. Almost.

He shifts around behind me and then nuzzles his face against my neck, his mask gone. I tilt my head toward him, catching his mouth in a kiss, and he begins to thrust again, slamming me up against the refrigerator even as his tongue moves slow and sensual through my mouth. When he breaks the kiss, it’s to bite my shoulder, notching his teeth into the scar he left the first time we fucked.

I’m desperate to come, and I reach down to touch my clit. But Sawyer knocks my hand away and takes over, rubbing it with his gloved fingers. It’s always so much, having his hand on my clit and his cock in my cunt. The double sensation sends fire rising inside me, and I thrash against him, moaning and shaking.

“That’s it,” he rasps, quickening his pace. “That’s it. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“I’m close,” I gasp out. “So… close…”

“How about now?” And then he presses his thumb hard against my clit at a very particular angle that completely unravels me. All the strength goes out of my body, and I’m wedged between Sawyer and the refrigerator, quaking with pleasure.

“Fuck me, but that feels fucking good.” His thrusts sharpen, shudder, become more erratic. “God, I love making you come.”

I thrust back against him, overwhelmed by the sensation of his slick, hard cock filling my overstimulated pussy. I know he’s close, and I want to feel the heat of his cum inside me. “Spill in me,” I gasp out. “I need your cum, Sawyer. I need it so fucking ba?—”

I don’t finish because he does, jittering his pelvis up against my ass and roaring out his pleasure. He sinks his fingers so deeply into my hips that I feel the delicious pinprick of his nails. I slump back against him, his wet jacket cool against my lust-heated skin.

Sawyer nuzzles me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I will never get tired of coming home to that,” he murmurs.

I catch his gloved hand and braid our fingers together, then pull it up so I can brush kisses against his knuckles. He pulls me around and guides me out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and then our bedroom. I’m too boneless to protest.

He tosses me on the bed, and I giggle and I roll over to look up at him, flushed and happy. The storm’s still raging outside, but it doesn’t scare me anymore. Not with him here.

“I was so worried about you,” I tell him. “So was Smoke.”

Sawyer shrugs out of his jacket, then sits on the edge of the bed and pries off his boots, tossing them across the floor. Then he stretches out on his side, and I roll over to face him. He pulls off his gloves and brushes his fingers against my cheek.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he says softly. “I’m a nightmare. Storms like this are where I belong.”

Then he kisses me, the soft slow kisses he always gives me when he’s happy. When I’m happy.

The mattress flutters; it’s Smoke, jumping up to nudge against Sawyer’s hand. He pets her distractedly, but his eyes are fixed on mine.

“This was a perfect fucking day,” he says.

I roll my eyes; only Sawyer would say that in the middle of a tropical storm. But honestly, now that he’s home safe, now that he’s made me come and planted his seed inside me, I can’t disagree with him.

Smoke tightrope walks along Sawyer’s legs and then curls herself into a ball on the ledge of his hips. Sawyer sighs like he’s annoyed, but I know he likes it. I do, too, our entire family tangled together in the warmth and light of our little house by the sea.

A predator, a predator’s pet, and his perfect prey.

The End