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“Yeah. The real evil ones get my special treatment.” He waves his hand around again, and I see it. This place is meant to look like a stage out of the creepiest horror movie.

“You’re fucking diabolical,” I grip his hipbones and pull him to me.

He leans in closer, his lips ghosting across mine. “I brought you here because I wanted you to understand, Jericho. I like to make them suffer. I’m fucked up inside. You utilize your skills and sometimes shoot from the rafters. But I like to get messy. I bask in their screams, get hard when they bleed, and fly high when the life leaves their eyes.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me. He’s tense, waiting for my reaction. Bracing for my rejection.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispers, shaking now. He looks so submissive and vulnerable now. He’s exposed himself to me in such a way that there’s only one word that springs to mind.

“Brave.”

“What?” he scoffs.

“You’re so fucking brave,” I say. His eyes drop, and I can tell I’m losing him. “You wanna know what I thought about you torturing people? About the thought of you reveling in their pain before taking their lives?”

His eyes slowly return to mine. He nods.

I capture his wrist and place his palm over my thick erection. He gasps.

“I think you’re so fucking brave for admitting it to me. I think you’re sexy and sinful.” I move his palm up and down my length, making him stroke me as I pant. “I think I want to watch you. I think that maybe, just maybe, I was meant to miss my shot that day, just so we can torture Franko together.”

Skylar’s chest is rising and falling in fast, heavy pants that mirror mine. I gaze into his brilliant, dangerous eyes, feeling the sheer, terrifying gravity of the bond we’re creating. He isn’t just a partner in crime. He’s a stunning, deadly specter, and he has me completely captivated.

“You’re mine, Skylar King. Fucking mine.”

He slams his lips to mine in a punishing, primal kiss.

The kiss is possessive, a devastating crash of lips and teeth that instantly turns into a symbol of our mutual obsession. His fingers tangle into my hair, painfully tugging me to him as if he’s trying to claw his way directly into my soul, demanding every last breath I have left.

Then, just like all the other times he’s done before, he drops to his knees. The realization slams into me with a force that leaves me dizzy. He’s submitting. I’ve been so damn focused on the fact that he is Skylar King, the dominating porn star who tops his partners, but that’s not who I’m seeing.

I’m seeing the real Skylar King. A beautiful, devastating creature who doesn’t just survive in the shadows…he thrives in them. He’s a man who treats the dark like a second skin, whose blood runs hot and dangerous at the mere whisper of violence. Skylar King is the type of man who would willingly submit to a murderer.

I grip his chin in a punishing hold, causing him to shiver. “Is this what you want, little minx? For another killer to dominate you right here in your cathedral of rust and blood?”

He’s panting heavily, nodding eagerly, eyes blown wide with arousal.

I begin unbuttoning my shirt in slow, sure movements, while he trembles under my intense gaze. “Take off your shirt,” I command. He doesn’t even hesitate, and it’s as if I unlocked some mystery that’s been right here in front of my eyes this whole fucking time.

I smirk, a wicked fucking thing that I know will help unravel him. Once we are both shirtless and in nothing but our black jeans and boots, I tug him to me. “You crave submission, don’t you, Sky?” I bend him backward, as if we’re dance partners and I’m dipping him in time to music only we can hear. I don’t wait for him to answer. I shove two of my fingers into his mouth and force him to suck. All the while, I lock my arms around him, pulling him in so tight that he clings to me with a fierce, trembling desperation. Below us, the catwalk groans and sways over a dizzying, lethal drop into the shadows, but neither of us cares.

He moans around my fingers, drooling and getting them wet. Trusting me to hold him, he lets go, desperately reaching for his pants and pulling them down his thighs, despite the awkward position I have him in.

I spin him around and bend him over the thin railing. My wet fingers find his tight hole. “Fuck, look at you. Desperate and needy. Even this tight little hole wants to be fucked by a killer.”

He moans, a high, needy sound, trembling so hard I’m convinced he might come from absolutely nothing but the thought of me filling him. The railing groans under his hold as I work my fingers inside of him. Stretching him.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he pants. “I love the stretch. I crave this, Jericho, crave you. Your dominance. Your control. I want you to fuck me and never let go.”

I lose it. Fucking lose it. His words undo me like a thin strip of ribbon falling away. Once he’s fully stretched, I whip my hard cock out, spit on it, and shove it inside.

He gasps, and then, to my shock, pushes back. I pound into him fast, with an animalistic need as we both lose absolute control. He’s still thrusting back hard, but we’re in sync, never losing rhythm. It’s like I’m truly burying myself deep and not letting go.

He comes first, shuddering and screaming, hands free. Untouched, with nothing but my thick cock filling him just right. His hole spasms around me. Tightening. Pulling. Milking. I groan, my whole body locking up as thick ropes of cum are sucked out of my body, the way he always manages.

Fucking hell. Apparently, it doesn’t matter if it’s his hand, or his mouth, or his hole. He completely undoes me every single time.

“There’s something else I want to tell you,” he says when we make it to my car fifteen minutes later.