Page 20 of Knife Thrower

I picture her on her knees right here on the linoleum. Naked. Stripped of the leather and velvet. What color are her nipples? Pale pink? Dusty rose? Would they tighten under my gaze? Would she enjoy my fingers on them, or the tip of my knife?

My fist moves faster, and my hips rock into my hand, the pleasure building in my balls with every stroke, every imaginary detail.

In the glass, the hallucination sharpens. Sloane’s eyes, icy blue and blown wide. Her hand sliding down her stomach, fingers parting her slick folds. I imagine her lush mouth parting, a soft, broken noise spilling out as she finds the exact right spot. Applies exactly the right amount of pressure.

The fantasy grabs me by the throat. The control she wears like armor, shattering. She throws her head back and moans my name. Her body goes tight and then shudders, her chest heaving, her thighs shaking as her fingers move in a blur.

My spine bows, and I lose my grip on the vanity edge. I pump my fist hard, three rapid times, and then the orgasm tears through me.

Thick, pearly ropes of cum erupt from my cock, splattering across the glass mirror, dripping down the reflection of my chest, painting the wooden vanity in thick white streaks. Spurt after violent spurt drains out of me, leaving my legs trembling.

I sag against the counter, dragging oxygen into my burning lungs. The high recedes, leaving an exhausted ache in my muscles. Reality is slow to sink in, the image of Sloane dissipating.

I look down.

Cum coats the mirror, the wood, the edge of the sink. I shove my softening dick back into my pants and zip up.

Then I wince.

I’m going to need a lot of antiseptic wipes. A fuckton of them.

8

SLOANE

The gravel crunches under my boots, loud in the post-show quiet of the lot. The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the heat radiating off my skin. My heart beats so hard the pulse thumps against my collarbone. It threatens to choke me.

I stop walking and press a flat hand against my sternum. The rhythm is frantic. Violent.

It isn’t fear. I know what fear feels like. Fear is a cold sweat and a locked jaw. Fear is counting the ceiling cracks while heavy footsteps approach the bedroom door.

This is entirely different. This is blood rushing south, pooling hot between my thighs.

After June died, the grief became a physical weight I couldn’t carry in silence. I sought out a few men over the years. One-night stands in cheap motels across state lines. They were desperate, hollow attempts to force my body to feel something other than the crushing void of losing my daughter. I always picked the same type. Shy men. Hesitant men. Men who waited for my cues and let me dictate the rhythm. They lacked the physical strength to overpower me, and that made them safe. They made sex a clinical, controllable distraction. It never worked, but I kept the parameters strict.

Cole Pike destroys every single one of those parameters.

He is lean, but the muscle under his skin is dense, coiled like a spring. He moves with a predator’s economy. I saw the way he watched me in that ring, tracking my movements, devouring me with those dark, slanted eyes. I saw the thick ridge straining against the zipper of his pants in the dressing trailer.

He could hold me down. He could pin my wrists, trap my hips, and take exactly what he wants.

But he hasn’t.

He grabbed my hand. His thumb brushed the scar on my palm. My muscles locked. The panic spiked.

And Cole instantly let me go. He stepped back. He surrendered the physical advantage the second he sensed my distress.

A harsh breath scrapes out of my lungs. I drag my hands over my face, the leather of my performance vest creaking in the quiet. I am terrified, but not of Cole. Not of his knives or his physical strength.

I am terrified because for the first time since I can remember, I am thinking of sex as a source of pleasure. Not a horror to survive. Not a sterile distraction to attempt. I am wet, aching, and completely consumed by the thought of his hands on my body. The realization rattles the foundation of the fortress I built around myself.

A cold shower. That’s what I need. Get inside the trailer, strip off this leather and velvet outfit, and stand under freezing water until the blood retreats from my groin.

Or turn the water hot. Crank the pressure up. Point the showerhead directly at the throbbing ache and finish what the knife-throwing act started.

I take a step toward the silver door of my trailer.

Then a shadow shifts near the edge of the awning across the lot.