Page 71 of Executing Malice

I stare at the photo, my pulse in my throat, between my ears ... my legs. His blood stains the corner I cling to with shaky fingers, a perfect thumbprint imprinted in a dry, crusty brown. I’m momentarily horrified by the urge to run my tongue over the stain. To taste him while I fantasize about living under his skin. That no one will ever have him the way I do.

The thought is poison and it’s spreading like liquid fire through my core. It taints every rational thought in my head as my eyes shut, and I picture him hunched over that razor. The first bite of it. The way he would have winced but kept going, dragging the blade with precise precession so each line is perfect.

For my name to be perfect.

I see his chest rising and falling faster, hear the short, ragged pants. The blood bubbling and spilling, turning his finger slick.

“Fuck,” I whisper, the single word a shaky exhale as my hand slips over my mound.

I should throw the photo away. I should burn it. But instead, I hold it tighter, closer to breathe in the lingering hints of copper and chemicals. I let it mix with the fantasy of himfinishing. The razor slipping from his fingers and clattering to the counter in a halo of red.

He’d have leaned back to examine his handy work. He’d examine each notch to make sure they were deep enough to leave a permanent scar. Maybe he smiled, pleased with himself. Maybe he imagined me seeing it like I am now with my fingers gliding and pumping where I need him.

The air feels thick clinging to my skin. Every stroke pulls me deeper under, dragging me into the place in my head where he lives. Not a photograph, but flesh and blood.

In my head, the door creaks open and he appears on the threshold. A dark figure framed by the light of the hallway. He stands bare chested, the cut fresh, still raw and glistening. My name a promise carved forever into his skin. His eyes lock on mine, daring me to be afraid. To stop.

I drive my fingers deeper. Hips rising, heels digging into blankets.

He steps closer, the smell of iron and sweat wrap around me a second before his fingers, still sticky, still warm with blood capture my jaw.

“Do you like it?”

I whimper, the sound snagging in my throat. My legs tense and toes curl as the edge rushes towards me.

In my fantasy, he kneels between my offered pussy. One bloodied hand pushes mine away. Replaces it. I can almost feel it. The slide of his touch smearing his blood over my lips. My clit.

“Don’t stop,”I plead, watching him with ravenous fever as he reaches up to his still trickling wound, gathers fresh blood and slides both fingers inside me.

His eyes burn with hunger that’s almost inhuman.“Why would I stop? I plan on fingerpainting every inch of you.”

His finger piston faster, harder. I’m so close.

“Started without me?”

I yelp at the intruding voice not in my fantasy but in the real world. The shimmer of my climax dies.

My head jerks up to find the object of my twisted fantasy darkening the doorway between the corridor and living room. He’s clad in his usual cargos and a black mask that covers the lower part of his face from under his eyes. A baseball cap covers the top part, shielding his features, but I’m more focused on his torso. He’s topless and I have a real view of my name.

Not bloody and raw, but still fresh. Days old. But prominent in the only patch of skin absent of ink, like he’d been deliberately keeping that spot empty for me.

“Getting ready for you,” I breathe, unable to take my eyes off the scars.

My biker closes the distance between us in two long strides. My legs obediently spread in anticipation, but he movespast me, heads for the windows. With several sharp tugs, he yanks the heavy drapes into place, casting us in a murky film of whatever light can filter through the thick fabric.

Then I have his full attention.

I have his powerful silhouette falling to his knees between mine like he had in my fantasy. His big hands settle on my thighs. Shove them wider.

“Did you like your gift?”

I feel my lips quirk. “Which one?”

He drops into his proper place. “All of them.”

The bill of his cap keeps his face hidden from me, but I know he’s rolling up the bottom half of his mask and my hips wiggle with anticipation.

“You took my jar back,” I accuse.