Page 28 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he walks in like nothing’s changed. Like she didn’t just Houdini her way out of a locked room with her hands tied and no motive but curiosity.

She lifts my glass from the counter—my water, not hers—and takes a sip like it’s aged Scotch. “Didn’t want to run. Didn’t seem smart. But I did want to see if I could.”

I don’t answer.

I should. I should ask how. Should ask what she used, how long it took, what else she touched on her way here.

But she’s already answered: none of it matters.

“What do you want?” I ask.

Her answer is slow. Measured. “A shower. A different shirt. Maybe a sandwich.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She doesn’t look away. “You did a terrible job tying me up. I figured that was an invitation.”

“It wasn’t.”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “Fine. My boyfriend is old. Seeing you work—seeing you sweat —well, it gave me the motivation I needed to get out of that room.”

“And?”

“And I guess I didn’t know it until now, but murder really gets me off.”

The sentence hangs in the room like smoke—harmless if you don’t breathe too deep.

I breathe anyway.

She walks past me, moves as though the floor’s hers—like I’m the one borrowing space. A woman used to playing defense and tired of pretending it isn’t offense in drag. I don’t stop her. Not until she’s close enough to graze.

I take her wrist.

Not rough. Not sweet.

Just the kind of grip that says: don’t run, don’t beg—just stay right there.

Thumb pressed to the inside, where the skin thins and the truth lives.

Her pulse flutters once.

And mine goes still, like it’s waiting for the safe word she won’t say.

She looks down at my hand, then up at my face as though she’s trying to decide if I’m about to fuck her or kill her.

Then she tips her chin like: Well?

I pull her in. Pin her between the counter and my body. She doesn’t tense. Doesn’t stop me. Just watches me as if she’s cataloging this, too—what I do when I stop using restraint.

The kiss is hard. Messy. Intentional.

No build-up. No ask.

My hands find her hips, her waist, her jaw.

My fingers move like we’re skipping steps we already lived through.

As though I’ve already paid for this and she’s just checking the receipt.

She presses back. Opens her mouth like a dare.

Her hands find my shirt, then my skin, then lower.

It’s not foreplay. It’s fallout.

I shove everything off the counter. Metal, glass, it doesn’t matter.

She’s on it a second later, thighs spreading without ceremony.

She yanks me closer. Bites down on a curse.

I’m already there. Already hard. Already past the point of talking.

I push her underwear aside.

Slide in with no warning, no lead-in—just the bare scrape of breath between us.

She’s wet.

Hot.

Tight like she wants to punish me for making her want this.

I move hard.

She grips the edge of the counter as though it’s the only thing keeping her from breaking.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

It’s skin, heat, and the sound she makes when I don’t stop.

She pulls me closer with her legs. Tells me what she wants with the arch of her back, the scratch of her nails, the sound she makes when I hit the right spot.

I catch her mouth again. Swallow the sound.

When she comes—tight and pulsing around me—her eyes stay open.

Locked on mine.

And I know she’s memorizing everything.

So she can use it later.

I finish with a groan, buried deep. Hands braced on the counter like the room’s tilting.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then she exhales.

And says, “So… about that sandwich.”