Page 12 of Scarlet Mark
“I dare,” I murmured, continuing my path along his perfectly sculpted abdomen.
Another day, another time, I’d have enjoyed this so much more.
But not tonight.
He held my gaze the whole way down, his nostrils flaring, the knife a steady presence against my throat. I knew he would use it. I just had to be faster.
This was my room.
I had prepped it knowing I may need to escape.
And poor, gorgeous Killian was about to learn a valuable lesson.
Never fuck with a woman who has nothing to lose.
A woman like me.
My knees hit the ground, and he spread his legs to allow me to settle between them. The dagger slid to the side of my neck, his hand appearing as a caress to the camera should someone peek in on us. A clever man. Trained. Obviously used to having to cover his tracks.
I pressed a kiss to his lower abdomen, above the black boxer briefs that no doubt fit him gloriously well. My palms skimmed his toned thighs, adoring the strength beneath the soft fabric, and settled near his loosened belt and unsnapped button. Catching the zipper in my teeth, I guided it downward, our gazes locked on one another the whole time.
Curiosity mated with lust as he watched me, his expression heated, his free hand falling to his ripped stomach. I grabbed his pants and gave them a tug, pulling them down, while smiling up at him.
This was the moment I desired.
The play I’d been waiting for. And his gaze said he knew it, anticipated it, was curious to see what I would do.
But he had no way of knowing.
Guiding the fabric over his knees, my knuckles brushed the edge of the couch. His lips twitched, the blade against my throat admirably steady. But he’d rested it against the side, not the base. Just as I desired. I shifted higher on my knees, my hands closer to his calves now, and pretended to adjust to finish removing his pants.
If I really wanted him distracted, I could continue the job.
But something told me he’d never let his guard down, no matter how fantastic my mouth might feel around him.
Now or never.
I slid my palm beneath the couch, finding the item I required, securing it, and smiling up at him as he lifted a knowing brow.
“The panic buttons won’t work, sweetheart,” he murmured, clearly having felt my touch leave his leg. “But nice try.”
I feigned disappointment. “What do you mean they ‘won’t work’?”
“Check my pants pocket, like I asked before.”
Frowning, I glanced down. His gaze followed, which was precisely what I wanted. A simple distraction that provided me with the means to react.
I shifted to the side—away from his blade—and lifted my hand at the same time. I only had one chance to make this work.
I didn’t even think. I just acted. Slamming my fist into his exposed thigh, I dug the needle deep into his skin and pressed down on the contents with my thumb before leaping backward. His knife had caught me on the chin, my movements too unexpected and fast for him to keep up with to make the cut deadly.
“Cute,” he said, eyeing the item in his thigh. “Very fucking cute.”
“You won’t be saying that in about a minute,” I told him, taking another step back as he pulled the needle out and tossed it aside.
He stood and pulled up his pants, fastening them with a speed that actually impressed me.
“What is it?” he asked, all signs of playfulness gone. “What did you just inject into me?”
