Page 37 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“I know.”

“Then why do you sound jealous?”

Because I imagined tonight before either of them knew your fucking name. Because every time you screamed for another man, I wanted to tear the maze apart with my bare fucking hands. Because I agreed to share you for one night and discovered I’m not nearly as generous as I believed. I lift her dress over her hips.

“You’re wearing their marks.”

Sloane looks down at the ropes securing her.

“I’m wearing yours too.”

It isn’t enough. I unzip her dress. The fabric loosens. I draw it down slowly, exposing her shoulders, spine, and waist one inch at a time. The pale material gathers around her hips before falling to the floor.

She isn’t wearing a bra. Rhys has her underwear. She stands before me in nothing but her boots, one ribbon around one wrist, and the ropes holding her to my altar. My restraint fractures.

“Sloane.”

My voice doesn’t sound human. She shivers.

“Still green.”

I drag both hands over her body. Her waist. Her hips. The curves I memorized through photographs and clothing. She is softer than I imagined. Warmer. Her skin rises beneath my palms as though every part of her recognizes me. I cup her breasts from behind. She moans. My thumbs sweep across her nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. Sloane pushes backward against my erection. I grip her hips and hold her still.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m trying not to fuck you before you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“No.”

She turns her head.

“You’re telling me how I feel?”

“I’m telling you I waited a year.” I bend toward her ear. “You can wait until I’ve tasted every inch of what I came here to claim.”

Her breath stutters. I kiss the back of her neck through the open mouth of my mask. Once. Twice. Then I bite the slope where her neck meets her shoulder. Sloane cries out. I soothe the mark with my tongue.

“Pain?”

“Three.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

I bite her other shoulder. Harder. Her body trembles.

“Pain?”

“Four.”

“More?”

“Yes.”