Page 11 of Cry, Little Dove

His hunting knife. It’s right in front of my face.

“Aw, darlin’, are you afraid?” he mocks, biting his lip as he grips the bone-carved hilt tighter. “The fear on your face makes you even prettier. Maybe I should scare you a lil more, huh?”

“I-I don’t—”

I whimper as he brings the knife closer to my neck. A cold caress slides along my throat, and my body lights up with panic and arousal. Every muscle inside me tenses.

The stranger leans in close, still fucking me with his other hand, and his breath is hot on my ear as he whispers, “Oh, my little dove. You just got even tighter. Does a knife against your throat turn you on? Do you get off on death threats?”

I don’t dare to move or answer.

The blade scrapes along the front of my neck, leaving a line of heat and a trickle of warmth. Shit, this time hedidinjure me, but it’s a precise, careful cut, sending silky shivers of pain along my skin.

He makes violence feel like tenderness.

“Admit it,” he rasps. “Admit that you almost came from my knife against your throat.” His words shouldn’t be as seductive as they are.

I swallow, and my voice comes out hoarse. “It-it’s true… your knife against my neck brought me to the edge.”

“That’s my good, dirty girl,” he murmurs and something inside me preens at his praise.

His fingers retreat from my pussy and he lowers the knife to my hips. He slices through my panties, letting them fall to the floor, but he doesn’t cut me again. Instead, he rears his hand and the blade back, grinning.

My eyes widen. “W-what are you—”

The knife shoots forward and I cry out, expecting the worst, but athunksounds. When I glance to the side, my legs wobble from relief.

The blade is stuck in the drywall, right by my head.

“You should see that look on your face,” he says, chuckling. “Fuck, you are divine when you think I’m about to murder you.” His amusement is cold and sadistic, and my stomach twists. Because hedoesscare me. And because it scares me more that I enjoy this.

The threats. The brutality. The roughness.

He bends to kiss the crook of my neck. His stubble scratches me, and I shudder as his tongue slithers along the cut he carved earlier. “You’re delicious, little dove. I can taste the terror in your blood.”

Oh God, what did I get myself into?

My skin crawls, but I can’t stop wanting him. The pleasure aches pulsing in my core are stronger than my survival instincts.

He grips my ass with both hands, hoisting me up like I weigh nothing at all, and I wrap my limbs around his large body. My fingers burrow underneath his collar, nails digging into his back and he groans against my lips while he kisses me.

“I know you said no names, but I wanna hear you moan my name when you come on my cock,” he says, grinding his crotch against me. The pressure on my clit has me back on the edge, but I have another urge inside me. One I can’t make sense of.

The undeniable need to please him. To hear him praise me.

“What’s your name?” I bring out.

He snickers. “Cain.”

Biblical. Much like the way he makes me want to get on my knees and pray to him. Much like the way I want him to defile me. It suits him. Cain, the seed of evil and violence and the first man to murder another.

Using the wall and one arm to hold me up, he unzips his jeans and yanks them down to his thighs at the same time as his underwear. His dick springs free, the tip pressing against my belly button as our bodies mold together.

My heart lurches.

He’s every bit as big as I imagined. A bulging vein runs along his thick shaft and beads of liquid pearl from the reddened, broad head, engorged with arousal. It makes my mouth water.

Low moans vibrate in Cain’s chest as he repositions me and rubs his length along my slit, moving me up and down. He enjoys teasing me and himself. The constant friction is driving me crazy, but it seems like he could do this all night.

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