Page 78 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I drag my tongue over my lower teeth to keep from grinning. “Would you like to address your arousal before or after we review the footage?”

Ryan’s hands grip the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. He tries for a snappy comeback, but only a whimper makes it out. His pupils are so wide the green is nearly gone.

“After,” he manages, but it’s a lie.

I set our breakfast on the far edge of the desk, then step behind him and curl my hand slowly around the back of his neck. He shivers.

“Are you sure?”

He nods—one quick, almost panicked movement. I fit my palm to his nape, thumb grazing the bones at the base of his skull. I slide my other hand beneath his shirt and stroke the long line of his back, fingers pressing into the tender muscles along his spine. His body arches to meet me, quivering with anticipation.

“Mm. No. Now, I think. You will not be able to focus otherwise.” I push him down, flat against the desk, my dick throbbing when he lets out a little gasp, then angles his hips up towards me.

I hook my fingers beneath the waistband of his pajama pants and tug them down in one swift motion, baring his ass to the morning light. He moans, and I slip the pants further, exposing the wet, swollen cunt I’ve been thinking about for hours. The smell of him floods the air, sharp and earthy, undercutting the tang of coffee and apricot.

I kneel, hands braced on either side of his hips, and run my tongue up the seam of him, slow and teasing. His knees buckle, but I hold him steady and go again. Another whimper, higher this time, and I smile against his skin.

“You are the most delectable treat. A perfect addition to my morning meal.”

That makes him whine, his little cock twitching with need.

He is so wet that it runs down his inner thighs, and I lap at it, savoring the salt and sweetness and the way he tries to hide his face in the crook of his arms. I flatten my tongue, licking him open, then slide two fingers inside, twisted so that my knuckles work the spot I know will make him see stars.

He yelps, hips snapping back against my mouth, and I hum approval, the vibration making him shudder.

“Please, fuck,” he groans. “Please, Camille.”

I want to make him come so fucking hard. I don’t stop until he’s sobbing into the desk, his cunt spasming so violently I have to use my other arm to keep him from collapsing.

Only after the aftershocks have settled do I rise, kiss the bite mark I left during another encounter on his shoulder, and begin to pull his pants up, careful not to hurt him.

He is limp and dazed, his hair sticking out in crazy loops. His cheek is printed with the rough grain of the desktop when he looks up at me, eyes glass-bright and lips parted, and says, “Please fuck me. I want to come on your cock.”

The force of his need makes me want to ruin him, but also—perhaps for the first time—it makes me want to cradle him instead. I lean down, kiss the point where his shoulder curves into his neck, and whisper, “Sit.”

He whimpers, as if this is the cruelest order I could give. “But I want—”

“I know what you want,” I say, patting his ass before setting him firmly on the chair, his thighs trembling with afterglow. “But first, you will eat, and we will look at the cameras. And then, maybe, if you are very good, I will fuck you so thoroughly you will beg to return to your own bed for mercy.”

He makes a sound that is neither agreement nor protest, just a soft exhale of surrender.

I hand him his baguette slice, slathered in confiture. He blinks, disoriented, but the sweet haze in his eyes tells me he is more pliant than I have ever seen him. I sit beside him, waiting until he tears off a bite and chews. He glares at me, but it is a lazy, petulant glare—one that says he would accept a thousand such denials if I kept touching him the way I just did.

I bring up the security system interface, which refocuses his attention on what it should probably be on, though I won’t begrudge him for wanting the endorphins from an orgasm to combat his anxiety around the situation.

I select yesterday’s eastern feed. The timestamp reveals early morning light filtering through the trees. Shadows stretch across the gravel lane. A few minutes later, Ryan appears at the frame’s edge—canvas bags swinging, his silhouette outlined by the sun.

“God, I walk weird,” he says, cringing at his own gait.

“You do not.” I turn my head away. “Sometimes I wonder how you survive your own thoughts.”

“Poorly,” he admits, then cracks a half-smile. Then a dark sedan glides into view, its presence cold and out of place. I pause the footage.

Ryan looks at me, alarm flashing. “What?”

I rewind six seconds. Press play again. The car idles at the frame’s edge—ordinary except for a small fracture in its lower-left taillight.

The crack is distinctive. Familiar. I grit my teeth.