Page 26 of Killer Bones

Why not say it? “It turns me on.”

“And?”

“I don’t know!”

“You want to die?”

“No! I just want a man who wants only me, and…he wants to hurt me like you do. A sadistic fucking asshole.” I frown at how I risked going there, then suck in a long, shuddering breath. “You wanted truth? That is my truth. It’s not simple to say why because I don’t know the whole answer. It’s sick. I know this—wanting someone who will kill anyone except me.”

I can taste the reality—inches, hours away. The craving for a man like this. I’ve bathed in gore and squirmed in the grip of possessive, violent antiheroes through the words on the pages of my books for so fucking long.

My protector—and who better to do that than a man who kills for fun.

Again I frown. The wound on my hand. He did that.

“I should hate you, but I don’t. Fuck me. Please?”

“Who is this girl who wants to be fucked?” He bites inside my knee, a small gentle bite.

“Me.” I close my eyes. “Me, a sick, disgusting girl.”

“You’re not that sick. I told you I’m not fucking you. Ask me again, and I’ll find more of those syringes to use on you like darts.”

Shit. I’m contemplating the two still stuck in me, when he rises and crushes my left breast. I’m struck dumb for a second as he presses, twisting the needles inside me. My knife-stabbed hand adds to the agony.

“Too much, too much!” I stomp my feet, get tangled in cloth rope and chains.

“Really?” Then he spears in with three, four fingers, crams them in over and over until I’m sobbing for release and can feel the slipperiness when he tries to thrust.

“You are a fucking sodding mess. You. Maybe you are sick.” He slides down me, frees my breast.

Swiveling my eyes, I look down, past the wobbling syringes, gaping, trying to breathe, and realize he’s on one knee and eyeing my clit area. He takes one bite above it, then takes a second bite that’s closer.

“Nooo,” I rasp. The belt presses on my throat. “Please?”

“No? You asked for it.” His whole hand seems to be worming into me, pushing, defying physics. My thighs and stomach tighten, spasm, muscles twitching. “Your cunt is trying to crush my hand.”

It is his hand. His whole hand.

“I’m going to tear apart.” God. “No, No.” Teeth bared, I’m overcome, distraught at how his entire fist has actually fucking entered me. My feet screw into the floor.

“Your greedy cunt tells me it wants it.”

Sweat drips off me, my breasts shine with it, and he’s grinning and fisting me, slowly. Have I split open? I sob. It feels as if I’m seconds from tearing.

Gasping, I try to rip my hands free, as he moves his fist in small increments with his face an inch from my clit. His mouth opens. Teeth show.

Then he puts his mouth on me and sucks while he fists me. A knot builds within, tension ramps, burning high, higher, peaking until, until…

His hand is inside me. Impossible. Unnatural.

With every muscle, I strain to the utmost… I’m moaning, my legs are jolting in great tremors, and the world blitzes into absolute mind-rending, white-out chaos.

Shattered, I fall into the belt and hang there, shaking, only to somehow find the floor with my feet and stay upright.

When he extracts his hand, I’m still shaking, I’m making dumb noises, because breathing is hard to get my head around. Through the tears in my eyes, I see him lick his knuckles like a demon cat as he retreats, his pink tongue sliding.

I check out for a few seconds, mind blanking.