Page 36 of Knife Thrower

I grab a bar of soap, work up a thick lather in my palms, and drag my hands over her shoulders. The sand washes away, swirling down the drain in a dark, gritty stream. I run my soapy palms down the dip of her spine, tracing the curve of her waist, massaging the cold tension out of the swell of her ass.

Sloane shudders. She drops her forehead against my chest, her wet hair plastering against my collarbones.

“You like that?” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the wet crown of her head.

She drags a breath into her lungs. The heat flushes her pale skin a vibrant pink, bringing the life back into her features.

“I love masturbating in the shower.”

A feral, uncontrollable growl tears out of my throat. The confession hangs in the heavy steam, a sliver of raw desire from a woman who built a fortress to keep desire out. I drop the soap, wrap my arms around her waist, and yank her flush against my front. My cock immediately surges to life, thickening against her flat stomach, rigid and demanding.

The violent urge to shove her against the wet fiberglass wall, hike her leg up, and bury myself inside her burns hot in my blood. I want to take her standing up, water raining down on us, pounding into her until the thin metal walls of the trailer shake.

I fight the instinct down. She spent the last hour freezing on a beach. The next time I fuck her, she deserves a mattress. She deserves blankets and comfort, not a cramped fiberglass box.

But I can’t leave that confession unanswered.

I reach up and rip the metal showerhead from its mount. The water pressure in this trailer is brutal, a jet stream of scalding heat. I don’t waste time with buildup. I aim the pulsing nozzle straight down, directing the hard stream directly onto her dripping pussy.

Sloane gasps. Her head tips back, her spine bowing in a tight arc as the water pressure hits her swollen clit. She leans her entire weight against my chest. I brace my back against the stall wall, turning myself into a solid anchor to support us both.

I slide my right knee between her legs, parting her thighs wider. Then I pull her hips back, seating her directly over my quad, exposing her wet, pink center to the punishing spray.

Her fingernails dig viciously into my biceps. She doesn’t hold back. The pain is sharp, piercing the skin, leaving half-moon indentations in my muscle. I welcome it. It’s a brilliant, grounding pain holding me in place while she unravels in my arms.

“Fuck,” she sobs, the sound echoing off the wet tiles. “Cole.”

Her hips buck against my leg. Her inner thighs twitch, a violent, uncontrollable tremor racing through the muscle fibers. The heat of the water drives her over the edge, and she comes hard, her breath tearing out in ragged, broken gasps, her body milking the spray in rapid, intense spasms.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. The sight of her falling apart, surrendering to the pleasure while anchored to my body, snaps the final thread of my restraint. I need to be inside her.

I kill the water.

I grab a towel off the rack, running the terry cloth roughly over her shivering limbs, wiping the worst of the moisture away. Then I drop the towel and scoop her up. She wraps her arms around my neck, her long legs hooking around my waist, her chest heaving as the aftershocks of her climax continue to rip through her core.

I carry her down the narrow hallway into the main area of the trailer. I don’t bother pulling the quilts back. When I reach the foot of the bed, I turn, letting my knees buckle.

I go down flat on my back, bringing Sloane down right on top of my chest.

A sharp, biting pain pierces directly into my lower spine, and a harsh groan rips through my teeth. I arch my back off the mattress, digging my hand under my body, and pull the offending object free from the tangled blankets.

One of my throwing knives. A six-inch blade with a leather-wrapped grip. I must have left it lying on the bed during my frantic search for a clean shirt this afternoon.

Sloane reaches for the steel, her icy blue eyes tracking the movement of my hand.

“I’ll put it on the nightstand.”

My fingers wrap like an iron vise around her wrist, stopping her mid-reach.

I stare at the blade. The polished metal gleams under the dim, yellow glow of the trailer’s single overhead bulb. A dark, twisted idea takes root in the back of my brain, blooming hot and heavy in my gut. I look at her face. The woman who doesn’t flinch. The woman who needs absolute control to survive whatever horrors are locked inside her head.

I bite down hard on my lower lip.

“Keep it.”

She freezes. Her hand hovers in the air above my chest.

“What?”