Page 43 of Knife Thrower

She’s dripping.

I thrust my hips forward, burying myself inside her tight, scalding center in one brutal plunge.

Sloane screams. The sound bounces off the metal walls, echoing down the empty row. Her spine bows in a wicked arc. Her fingernails scrape harsh lines against the corrugated siding.

I pull back and slam into her again. The wet slap of our bodies colliding fills the alley. I fuck her with a relentless, punishing rhythm. I don’t give her time to adjust, and I refuse to let her catch her breath. I want to shatter the last remaining piece of her icy control and watch her fall apart in my hands.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel and two figures round the corner of the rig. Matt and Jack, both carrying coils of heavy black cables over their shoulders.

They freeze. Their jaws drop. Their eyes bug out, taking in the sight of my hips driving relentlessly against Sloane’s bare ass while she moans against the steel wall.

I don’t stop, holding Matt’s gaze. My jaw locks tight as I drive myself deeper into the woman pinned against the trailer, claiming her completely in the broad daylight.

Matt swallows hard. Jack’s face turns the color of a fire engine.

“Sorry,” Matt squeaks.

They spin on their heels. Their boots kick up clouds of white dust as they sprint back the way they came, disappearing around the corner in a panicked blur, even if it isn’t the first time they’ve seen one of us fucking in the open.

Sloane throws her head back, and a breathless, hysterical laugh tears from her throat. Her inner walls clench tight around my cock. The sheer exhibitionist thrill seems to act as a violent accelerant, driving her wild.

I drop my chest flush against her back and bury my face in the crook of her neck. My lips brush the sensitive skin below her ear, my hot breath washing over her pulse point.

“We are going to carve him up, Archer,” I whisper. My voice is rough and filthy against her skin. “I’m going to strap Raymond to a wooden chair. I’m going to lock the door. I’m going to hand you my sharpest blade.”

She moans loudly. Her hips buck back, chasing the friction.

“I want to ruin him,” she gasps, her breath hitching.

“You will.” I thrust hard, hitting the deep, aching spot inside her. “You’re going to flay the skin right off his chest. We’re going to castrate the bastard. I’ll make sure he watches you do it. He’s going to bleed out on the floor screaming your name.”

The twisted, violent promises fry my brain.

Sloane’s pussy grips me in a vise. The muscles ripple in erratic, tight spasms as she grinds back against my pelvis, unhinged by the bloodlust.

A harsh groan interrupts the slap of our bodies.

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

The rhythmic sound of a hand working a hard cock.

Sloane gasps. I whip my head to the side, my hips stalling.

Logan is leaning against the opposite trailer wall, a few feet away. His fire-scarred hands grip his own thick erection while his chaotic gray eyes track the point where our bodies connect. He jerks his fist up and down his shaft in a rapid, brutal blur.

“You are both so incredibly fucked up,” Logan groans. His hips buck off the metal siding. “This is as hot as watching Rowe fuck Wren.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sloane cries out. Her eyes are locked on Logan’s fist. The sight or the shock of it pushes her straight off the edge.

Her climax hits with a violent shudder, and her inner walls crush down over my cock, milking me dry with unrelenting force. It feels so fucking good it’s agony.

“Fuck,” I roar as I empty into her. Spurts of hot cum erupt from my dick, flooding her tight, throbbing center. I bury my face in her shoulder, my vision going white as the orgasm tears me apart. My thighs tremble, my fingers digging bruises into her hips to keep myself upright.

The sounds of our shared orgasm push Logan over the edge too. The pyromaniac throws his head back against the steel wall with a loud thunk, and a strangled, jagged shout rips out of his chest. He pumps his fist three final, furious times, and his body arches. Thick white ropes shoot from the tip of his cock, splattering across the dirt and gravel between us.

He rides out the climax, his chest heaving under his dark shirt. Then his scarred hands drop, trembling at his sides.

Silence crashes down on the alley, broken only by our ragged, heaving breaths and the distant hum of the carnival generators.