Page 34 of Hitch
“Do you really want to know?”
That response makes me tremble. Because we both know the answer, and the truth is far worse than what he’s making me do right now. We’re both fighting for control, and right now, he knows he has power over me.
“Cut yourself for me,” he beckons.
Our eyes lock, and I bring the knife to my chest. I cut the top of my breast, right above where my tank top starts, letting a drop of blood trickle down my skin. Duane licks his lips, his eyes glossy as he fixates on the blood.
“Again,” he says, tilting his head toward the other breast. I press the knife to my skin and the pain is sharp, shooting through me. “So pretty,” he murmurs. “Hurting yourself. Bleeding for me. Being such a good little plaything.”
Then he steps forward, putting a hand under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His blue eyes are dark, full of terror and madness, and I know that he’s exactly what I’ve always wanted. And at the same time, I know he’s hiding a body on his mushroom farm. My corpse could be next.
He undresses me, his fingertips skimming across my bare skin, and he takes his time, as if hewantsto torture me by teasing me into this new state of vulnerability. I don’t even try to stop him. I even let him take the knife. I tell myself that I’m frozen with fear, but I know that’s not what this is. It’s raw desire, and the need to experience just how much he wants me too.
“Is it the fear, Reggie?” he asks, smirking down at my naked body. “Is the fact that youknowI need this from you or I’ll fucking kill you?”
“Please don’t kill me,” I whisper. The tears build in my chest. He smacks my breast with his palm and I shriek.
“You can beg better than that,” he laughs.
He turns the knife flat so that the smooth surface rubs across my folds, dragging back and forth, teasing me with the sensation. His lips press against my breasts, licking up that red liquid, and desire boils me alive. It’s disgusting—or, itshouldbe disgusting. Disturbing.Wrong.Anything other than what it is to see him lick my blood like that.
But seeing him taste my blood as he presses the knife’s flat surface to my pussy, confuses me. Desperate hunger and shame war in my mind, yet my pussy contracts, eager for more. Eager to swallow up the knife. To take his cock. For him to rip me apart in every possible way.
If he’s killed someone before—if I really did see a corpse in the back of his truck—then it confirms my fears. He’s a killer. He could killme.
And god, how that drives me wild.
I rub myself along the knife, my lips quivering as he stares down into my soul, seeing the darkest parts of me. The emotional ugliness that wants to die right now, knowing how messed up this is, and the depravity that knows that he could make me come like this. Rubbing myself off on his knife. Seeing blood—my blood—paints the crevices of his lips.
“Tell me how much you love it,” he orders, his words vibrating against my skin.
“I—”
But I can’t finish the words. I’m too ashamed to say the words out loud.
“Loud and clear, slut. I want the world to know exactly the kind of filth you’re into.”
“I love it,” I murmur.
I shake my head, not able to say it while facing him, and he removes the knife. My hips, so used to grinding on that flat piece of metal, keep gyrating in the air for a few seconds before my body catches up and realizes that the sensation is gone. I gawk up at Duane, pleading for the friction. A grin tugs at his lips.
I grit my teeth, suddenly full of irritation. He’s playing with me, isn’t he?
“You’re an asshole,” I say.
“First, I’m a killer. Now, I’m an asshole? What? Because I took away your chance at an orgasm?” he says. “Make up your mind, Hitch. I want to hear you.” He clutches his dick through his jeans. “It makes my dick hard, knowing how desperate you are to get off.”
Anger fills my chest with a dark heat, but no matter how much I try to switch the lust for hatred, it doesn’t happen. He’s a predator, completely in control of our surroundings, and I’m the prey that walked right into his trap. Thatwantedto be caught. Why did I tell him about my fantasies? Was I stupid for admitting that stuff? Is this my fault for making him think that I want to rub up on a knife and bleed for him?
Or did I do exactly what I wanted for once, even if I knew it was bad for me?
Before I can think twice, I scream at the top of my lungs: “I love it! I fucking love it! I love how you make me do such awful, depraved things and I want to kill you for it. So,” I grab for his hands and a chuckle escapes his chest, “fuck me before I—”
He pushes me down until I’m lying on the floor again. Then he presses the knife’s handle to my slit, his hands clutched around the blade, carefully holding it so that it doesn’t cut him too.
“Eyes on me,” he says. “I want you to know exactly who controls your pussy.”
The handle penetrates me and my eyes roll into the back of my head, pleasure overwhelming me. My hips thrust forward, begging for more, for his thickness, for his length, and he laughs at me.
