Page 82 of Sing For Us

I point the knife at her, and she instinctively backs up, and her back hits the tree again. My body presses up against her, and I place my forehead on hers. Looking deep into her eyes, I see it—the desire to still want to ruin me.

Not if I do it first.

I place my hand over her mouth, muffling any sound. She places her hands on my shoulders, an attempt to push me down. Lana quickly notices that it won’t change for what’s to come: total annihilation. I turn the knife in my right hand, so I’m grabbing the sharp side. The handle comes up to my mouth, and I put it in my mouth. My saliva is being used as lube, and when I bring it back down to her dripping pussy, Lana thrashes and digs her nails into my shoulders.

“You are going to take this knife like a good fucking girl.”

Chapter twenty-eight

Lana

And I fucking will take it. Noa is the catalyst to all of my inhibitions, and he’s the only thing that is affirming I’m still alive.

What a time to be alive with my enemy wanting to fuck me with his knife.

Noa teases my entrance with the handle by slowly grazing it over my pussy. The anticipation is killing me, and I push my pussy against the handle, needing that friction.

“Does this little slut want to be fucked by my knife?” His condescending tone should make me angry. To my dismay, it doesn’t—his need to be degraded matches mine. In my day-to-day life, I manage a group of assassins, and sometimes I need…relief. That relief comes in the form of a man with eyes dark as his soul. Those damn eyes will be the death of me, not the bullet he is probably going to put in my skull once all of this is done.

No, those lustful eyes will. What a fucking way to go.

I bite the inside of his hand, enough to draw a little bit of blood. The metallic smell invades my nostrils, and my eyes roll backward in response to it. And the taste of it on my tongue makes me weak in the knees. I hitch one leg around Noa’s hip, and that’s his cue to push the handle inside my sopping cunt.

He isn’t gentle with the knife, and I don’t want him to be. My feverish skin is a beautiful contrast against the freezing temperature of the metal handle. The ribbed grip creates an intense, rough friction I’m chasing. My muffled scream dies against his palm, and I give in to the temptation only Noa can give me. I arch my back off the rough bark, driving my hips forward to bury the hilt to the guard—demanding the absolute limit of what he can give me.

And. Does. He. Give.

I don’t blink as we keep eye contact. Drowning out the outer world around us.

Only we exist right now.

I dig my nails into the meat of his arms until my tips draw blood, my hips thrashing in an erratic rhythm against his hand. I don’t want safety. I don’t want niceties. I don’t want anything gentle.

I need Noa’s chaos to find my way back out of this fog.

“You.” Thrust. “Are.” Thrust. “Mine.” He isn’t asking me; he is telling me and demanding my complete devotion in this moment. I give him what he’s so desperate for by scratching the hell out of him. Pain and pleasure mix, and we drink up this delicious cocktail.

Every blunt thrust of the metal grind against my core makes my mouth twist into a manic grin—begging him to ruin me with the knife. He buries it deep within me, and my orgasm rips through me. I moan hard in the inside of his hand.

“Your moans are how angels sound in Heaven. Too bad you got entangled with the devil.” He says that like it’s coming from deep in his chest, his voice cracking from the adrenaline. It sounds less like a man talking and more like a predator marking its territory.

I don’t flinch as I slowly tilt my head back against the tree. A terrifying grin stretches across my bloody lips, and a breathy laugh bubbles up from my chest.

“Who is to say that the devil isn’t a woman?” I ask him as I lick the copper taste of his blood from my teeth. He follows my movement and his mouth hangs open.

“What a delicious sin that would be,” he says, holding his knife tightly.

Noa matches…everything that’s happening inside me: my thoughts, my desires, and my readiness to kill.

Fuck.

I take a look at the knife he’s holding, and my eyes drop to the inside of his hand—it’s coated in his blood. He notices I’m staring at his hand and he takes advantage of that. In one single stride, he is before me. Heat radiates off him, and I bask in his warmth.

He brings his hand towards the side of my face, showing me his bloody hand.

“This is all because of you. How am I going to explain to my team what happened here?” He leans in until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. Noa’s voice is a low, intimate rumble, thick with a terrifying certainty. There isn’t a single shred of doubt in his tone; he believes that he has already looked in my soul and is convinced I won’t do anything.

I smirk, wanting to prove him wrong. With my right hand, I grab his and bring it up to my lips, maintaining eye contact. He brings his bottom lip between his teeth, and I feel his hot breath on my lips.