Page 48 of Ash and Poison

“Very funny.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m still laughing,” I said, pulling my phone out from inside my trench coat. There on the screen was… Asher, touching himself with my lace panties clutched in his hand. “Oh, lookie here. It’s you, and what are you doing? Sniffing my panties, Pussycat? This is so wrong.” I shook my head. “And where is your other hand? Were you touching your hard, little cock?”

It wasn’t little in any way, shape, or form.

He stilled for a second, studying my phone screen, staring at the evidence of his guilt.

“The trip took a slight, raunchy detour, didn’t it?” Winking, I grabbed the knife from my trench coat. “Bad boy, Pussycat. What a fucking bad boy. And… bad boys must be punished.” He flinched when I waved the knife at him.

“Let me go, you psycho bitch,” he growled, eyes flaming with violence. He didn’t look so smug anymore. I traced the knife down his chest until it was closer to his stomach. He jerked up when I pressed it slightly against his stiff cock.

Throwing a leg over his body, I sat on top of him as he buckled under me.

“Well… are we giving each other nicknames, you murderous bastard?” I sang, pressing my knees to his sides, holding him in place. If I moved a little lower, I knew I’d feel him already hard for me. “Hush, you’ll wake the whole building up, and then your secrets will come out.”

“What the fuck are you…”

Pressing the knife to his throat, I looked down, my eyes clashing with green that had gone dark. They spoke of deranged wishes he harbored in his soul. “You brought this on yourself,” I said, smiling. “There goes your alibi, Ash.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not that desperate.” I am.

“You’re fucking insane,” he grunted, his voice strained, his jaw clenched.

“Says the psychopath who killed his therapist and a club owner.” I pressed the blade further into his throat, letting the sharp edge bite just enough to draw a thin line of blood. He hissed, and a thrill of satisfaction rippled through me.

I swiped my thumb across the blood and sucked it in. He groaned, soft and long, his body going limp underneath me, the fight leaving his body.

His lips parted, and I wanted to bend down… and take a sharp bite.

“Careful there, Sharma,” he growled, his voice laced with poison. “You’re playing a dangerous game, and you won’t win.”

I stared at my pink painted nails against the black hilt of the knife with a smile.“I never play a game I can’t win, Pussycat,” I murmured, leaning in closer, my breath hot against his skin. “Underestimating me is a mistake. You started this game, and… maybe I’ll end this.”

“You think you’ve got the upper hand, don’t you?”

“I know I’ve got the upper hand here, Maddox. You’re shackled to the bed, and I have a knife to your throat.” I raised an eyebrow, pressing the blade a fraction deeper, watching his smirk falter as another bead of blood surfaced. “And I’m going to cut you more. Does this not look like I have the upper hand?”

“Bitch.”

I leaned in, my lips hovering by his ear. “It was fun watching you try to keep up. I have met men more dangerous than you, Maddox, and I always win.”

“Go on, then,” he dared. “Cut me. Make me regret it.”

What the hell was he…

“Tempting,” I murmured. “If you want that so bad, I’ll give it to you until you beg for mercy.”

His eyes darkened. “You never know when to shut up.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said, tracing the blade along his jawline, feeling the thrum of his pulse beneath my touch. I got off of his stomach, taking a few steps back, and his smile turned lazy.

Irritating bastard. Even tied to the bed, he looked at me like he was somehow in control.

“Should I leave you like that? Shackled, helpless, fragile… easy enough for anyone to hurt you?”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Diya.”