Page 48 of Broken Queen
“It’s a fantasy of mine,” I sighed. “I’ve thought about killing him for years.”
“How would you do it?”
There were so many options, and I had gone through all of them in my head, imagining each tragic, but deeply satisfying end.
“Gun?” Hazard asked.
My nostrils flared. “Too easy.”
“Knife?”
“Better, but not quite.”
“Blunt force trauma?”
“Still, too nice for someone like him. He has to feel it, you know?”
He stroked the sides of the guillotine, the same one that I had lain in at the last Masquerade. The same one Hazard had put me inside of when we were alone, right before I subtly convinced him to kill my husband.
“Should we put him in this, my queen?” he asked.
Every time he called me that, my heart swelled, knowing that even if he was using that title to manipulate me, he was also using it to please me, to show me that he knew what I wanted, and that he was willing to give it to me.
“That’s how my mother died,” I said. “Ernest was the final click in her game.”
Hazard licked his lips, his eyes falling to my chest.
“Then that’s how he’ll go, then.”
“You promise?” I asked.
“Would I ever lie to you?”
I laughed loudly. Then I gestured at the lunette, and Hazard opened up that head hole. I straddled the bench, letting the skirt of my dress pool to the sides. My pussy lips rubbed against the leather bench.
“Lock me in it,” I said. “Fuck me in it, Hazard.”
“You trust me with this shit?” he asked, as if to see if I remembered that he had clicked through the last eight rounds in my game. I remembered his bull mask so clearly, the black tattoo circling his cock as he shoved his length down my throat.
I batted my eyelashes. “Not a chance,” I teased him. But it was a lie. I shouldn’t have trusted Hazard with anything, especially not my heart. But he already had that, and I knew he wouldn’t kill me. Not yet, anyway.
“Do you trust me, Hazard?” I asked.
“Should I, my queen?” he said, but I didn’t hear his words. Adrenaline beamed through me—my face burned, my chest heavy with swampy air. It was like the recklessness inside of him had left his body and was now boiling in my chest.
I wanted to do this, even if it meant I died.
“I want you to fuck me with my head locked in there,” I groaned. “I love knowing that you could kill me at any second. It makes me so fucking hot.”
He grabbed my chest, shoving me down on the bench, then he locked the hatch around my neck. Pushing my dress up around my legs, he licked my pussy, from my ass all the way to my clit, leaving a trail of warm saliva in the valleys of my body, every inch of my exposed skin burning, a shiver blowing up my spine, to the gentle pressure of the lunettes around my neck.
“Being locked up in a guillotine makes you wet, doesn’t it, my queen?” he growled. “Fear makes you wet. It’s the fear of knowing that this is how your mother died. And how you’re going to kill the man who took her life.”
He grabbed the remote, but I raised my hand.
“No—” I shouted. “Do it manually. It’s so much more fun that way.”
A smirk danced on his lips as he returned the remote, then played with a device on the side of the contraption, removing a small black metal object that kept the blade synced with the remote. With the rope clutched in his palm, the sharp, angled blade at the other end, he beamed down at me. His hand was the only thing keeping me from the end of my life.
