Page 33 of Thankless in Death

“You know, maybe I can get it up after all. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to stick it in you. Oh, you can’t tell me.” He tapped a finger on the tape. “Nod. Nod that you want me to fuck you right now. Nod, or I’ll mess you up.”

She managed to bob her head, but his fist slammed into her again.

“Not fast enough!” he said as her eye swelled shut. “Nod, bitch. Fast!”

She bobbed her head, sobbing.

“You want it? You want what I got?” He grabbed his crotch, then slapped her again. “You can’t have it.”

Considering, he took out the knife again. Her good eye wheeled, and her body began to buck. “Hold still or I’ll cut you.” He sawed off a hank of her hair. “I don’t like the new do. I’m going to fix it.” He hacked, sawed, sliced until her glossy chestnut hair was a choppy cap of tufts.

“Yeah, that’s better. They’re going to find you, naked, half bald and ugly. You earned it. You tried to make me your dog. You’re the dog. Bark! Bark!”

He held the knife to her throat. “I said fucking bark.”

She made sounds, and her eye pleaded with him.

“Good dog! You know who’s in charge now.”

He pinched her nose shut with his fingers, and she exploded under him.

“You never put that much energy into sex, you stupid bitch. Lousy lay.”

When he released his grip, she sucked air in through her nose, her chest shuddering with it. Sobs shook her, a harsh gulping against the tape.

“What’s that?” He turned his head, exaggerating the move. “I can’t quite hear you? Do you want to say something to me? Do you want to tell me you’re a bald, ugly dog, and beg for my forgiveness? You want to state your case now, bitch dog? Well, that seems fair.”

He reached down for the corner of the tape, pulled back. “Oh, one more thing?” And laid the knife against her throat. “Scream and I’ll slice your throat. Understand me?”

She nodded.

“Good dog.” He reached for the tape again, leaned down so their faces were close. “Forgot, there’s one more thing.”

He reached back, pulled the length of cord from his back pocket. “I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”

He wrapped it around her neck, pulled, pulled.

And felt the thrill watching her eyes bulge, watching the red crack the white, feeling her body rage and ripple under his, hearing the gurgles.

The tighter he pulled, the more it built, burning inside him. Her bound feet drummed against the bed as she convulsed, her bloodied hands shook like an old woman’s. And he yanked harder, groaning with pleasure, hips rocking as the sharp, uncontrollable sensation clawed through him, out of him.

When her eyes went fixed, the orgasm ripped through him. Huge, amazing, like nothing before experienced.

He choked out his own cry, gulped and gasped for air until his body stopped vibrating.

Then he collapsed beside her, sated, stunned, and for the first time in his life, totally fulfilled.

“Jesus! Where have you been all my life?” He gave her thigh a little pat. “Thanks.”

Now he had to shower, and dig out her hoarded tip money, scout out anything in this dump worth taking. But first, he had to see what she had in the kitchen.

Like a fat joint of zoner, killing gave him the serious munchies.

THOUGHTS WEIGHED HER DOWN AS EVE TURNED through the gates of home. Often—usually, in fact—after a long day that first sight of the gorgeous, castlelike house Roarke built smoothed things out. The way it rose, spread, jutted against the evening sky at the end of the long curve of road tended to lift weights. Reminded her she had a home. After a lifetime that had begun in nightmares, shifted to the misery of shuffling foster care and state control, and to, at long last, her own place in New York that had been primarily a space to catch some sleep between investigations, she had a real home.

But tonight, there was just too much weight.

It strained against her that a selfish asshole could elude her, even for a day. She needed to start fresh, go back to the beginning, and move through it all step-by-step. And without the distractions of an offer of a captaincy.