Page 95 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘Fuck, James…’

Only he could make me feel so possessed while offering murder as devotion. Violence and tenderness are so perfectly tangled together that I can’t find where one ends and the other begins.

‘James,’ I plead, needing more. Wanting all of him.

‘Fuck,’ he moans, all throaty and hot, losing control entirely.

He comes before me, his grip painful and delicious. I cry out as he finishes without me, filling me with ropes of hot cum. I know I can’t complain, I already came, but he has me thrumming with need.

He drops to his knees, lifting my leg over his shoulder, utterly unconcerned with the mess he’s made. That perfect, filthy mouth covers my well-fucked pussy as I pant.

There’s no teasing. No build-up. His tongue, teeth, and lips take. The merciless onslaught has me losing my goddamned mind. James looks up at me, sliding his tongue through his mess until I can see it gathered on his tongue.

Fucking filth.

He watches me as I lose control, grinning against my cunt as if he has nowhere in the world he’d rather be than on his knees on a shitty Travelodge carpet, making me grind against his tongue.

The edge blurs until I’m lost somewhere between earth and heaven, my body lighting up from head to toe.

I drown him.

When I finish, James reaches up and loosens the belt from the door, guiding my arms down slowly and rubbing my wrists where the leather has left its bite.

I can’t walk.

I don’t need to. James picks me up, deposits me on the toilet to pee and clean up, then carries me to the bed.

There’s no argument. I’m pretty sure I’m made of butter at this point.

He pulls the covers around us, and I close my eyes.

‘We’ll find him,’ James whispers into my hair.

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise you,’ he says.

And I trust him enough to believe him.

30

JAMES

The warehouses all look nearly the bloody same. My body aches, and we’ve only got three days left to find Fraser.

I’m trying to be strong for Eliza, but I’m beginning to think we are on a wild goose chase.

The same chain-link fences and rusted exteriors. The same damp smells and empty rooms. Another unit on a trading estate outside the city, sandwiched between identical-looking buildings. Unremarkable.

Exactly the place you’d pick if you needed to hide illicit trade. Or people.

Except this one has light spilling from the dingy windows.

Eliza perks up beside me when she sees it, and I reach for her wrist, trying to slow her down before she throws herself in all guns – or knives – blazing.

‘They’re here,’ she says.

‘It might just be a light.’