Page 32 of Cut Deeper

“I like it,” she murmured, turning it over, running her finger along the spine until it reached the tip.

There was something incredibly sexy about watching her handle my knife. I had no doubt she knew how to use it—but it was the reverence in her hands that no one else could have understood.

She raised it and began slashing at the air in sharp, controlled movements—fast, vicious jabs that reminded me of the night she’d torn her canvas apart.

“Come over here, Anne.”

She glanced over her shoulder and slid the knife back into its sheath. It fell into my open bag, and she didn’t hesitate to walk toward me.

“Finally,” she murmured as she approached.

Her eyes latched onto my aching cock. I took the zip ties from my pocket, and hers flared at the sight of the thin black plastic.

“You’re going to let me use every single hole tonight,” I said, wrapping the first tie around her wrist before looping a second beneath it.

It was strange, leaving a finger’s width of space beneath the plastic and her skin. I usually tightened them until hands and feet turned purple.

“On the bed.”

She stepped out of her slippers and climbed onto the bed, the zip ties hanging off her wrists like unconventional bangles. I looped two more around her ankles and cinched them tight.

I raised one leg and cuffed it to her wrist with another tie. Her skirt rode up, white underwear coming into view. I did the same with the other leg, then stepped back to admire her.

I crossed to her dresser and opened the top drawer. Vibrators, carving wires, anal plugs, nipple clamps, pegs, lubricants, wipes—an arsenal, curated for an audience of one.

This was why I hadn’t minded her going through my bag. I’d been in her house too, learning everything I could. I took the largest metal plug and the lube, then closed the drawer.

I set them on the bed and began unbuttoning my shirt. All she could do was watch, her fingers gripping her own ankles.

She was spread open.

Every beautiful scar on display.

And I was going to worship each one.

Chapter 17

Anne

He was in a league of his own. No one turned me down. No one could control themselves after I spiked them—they became desperate animals, dying to stick their cocks inside me. And here was Ethan Hammond, calmly stripping despite having been hard for the last forty minutes.

The zip ties were clever. They left me open for him to do his worst.

His shirt landed over his bag as he moved to the black leather belt. Those beautiful long fingers, capable of restructuring and destroying. My pussy clenched at the memory of his work on Eva—the precise cuts, her jaw cracking open, the stitched cheeks he’d torn open again after.

Sick, nasty bastard.

I loved it.

His muscles flexed as he shed his trousers and tossed them aside. His thumbs hooked beneath his waistband before he dragged his boxers down, releasing his cock—heavy, angry, darker than before. All that blood pooling there for my benefit.

I had zero regrets.

He climbed onto the bed and untied the front of my cropped top, baring my breasts. His eyes lingered before his hand moved lower, one finger tracing my pussy through soaked silk and lace.

“So wet and I’ve not even touched you?” he murmured, slipping his finger around the edge of my underwear.

I held my breath as he pulled the material back, stretching it before letting it snap. Did he think a little edging would make me crack?