Page 49 of Dirty Tricks

My hands grab for Xander, pulling him close, hands sliding on his skin, slippery with blood. I smear it wider, losing the last white patches of his skin to the deep crimson delight.

The smell is intoxicating. A stench of death and desire that combines into one.

As Xander tears at my clothing and I tear at his, we drop to the ground, me pinning his shoulders to the earth as I straddle him, letting him work out what needs to be removed to leave us bare for each other, feeling his fingers press inside me, checking I’m ready—always the gentleman—before he nudges the head of his cock inside me and I slide my body over him, eyes rolling back in my head at how glorious it feels, sliding down, down, down until he’s buried all the way inside me, muscles clenching around him to keep him in place.

Discovering yet again that death is a great aphrodisiac and murder multiplies that by ten.

I stab my blade into the ground above his head, grabbing hold of his shirt in my bunched fist and dragging him upright to take my kiss. One hand supports my lower back, then drops to caress my arse. With the other, he lays his thumb along my jaw, his fingers closing around my throat, not yet pulling tight.

After this long together, we know each other’s bodies intimately. We each know what the other enjoys, know what moves surprise and delight.

As I rock back and forth on his hard cock, his hand grabs harder and harder on my arse, then he flips me, slamming me onto the hard ground, still buried inside me.

“Do you want me to make you feel good?”

“Mm-hm.”

His mouth finds the hollow of my neck, licking and sucking before his teeth bite into the tender flesh, deep enough for me to wear his mark for days. In return, I reach under his shirt, scoring my nails across the width of his back, digging into his skin hard enough that when I stroke him, soothing the same spot I’ve treated so roughly, I feel the raised lines that mark my path.

Then we’re twisting and turning, rolling across the ground, his snarl in my ear earning him my first orgasm, my muscles convulsing around his cock while he slows, to let me wring every drop of pleasure, then speeds again, seeking his own.

We pin each other in turn, tussling, wrestling. Alternating between me riding to victory, then being crushed beneath his weight.

Teeth tear at my earlobe, tongue licking the blood from my chest, suck at my nipple, grazing it with his stubble until I shriek in pleasure.

He withdraws from me long enough to turn me over, face down on the ground while he lifts my hips up, pausing for a second for my nod before he slams into my ready and waiting body, burying himself so deeply he might never find his way free again.

And when he finds his rhythm, his giant hands burrow between my legs, forcing me harder against him, pushing me into another orgasm while my mouth sags open, waiting until I recover to tease, “Is that the best you can do?”

He growls, dragging my torso upright, an arm pinned across my midriff as he thrusts into me so forcefully that I would bounce if not for the restraint. My hands grab over my shoulders, clutching his head, digging my fingers into his hair and tugging at it, the vibrations from his groan spreading across my shoulders, finding new erogenous zones to light on fire before he runs out of breath.

His fingers find my mouth, probing, pushing while I suck them clean of our kill, lights dancing in my eyes when I take too long between breaths.

“You have one more ready for me?” he whispers in my ear. “Or do I have to force it out of you?”

I gulp in air, hiccupping out a groan as he finds an angle inside me that curls my toes, makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“You want one more, you work for it,” I say, the words staccato. “Or do I have to do everything around here?”

For a second, he splutters with laughter, his stroke off rhythm as his chest vibrates against my back, the warmest, sexiest sensation in the universe. And as it always is, his joy is contagious, making me giggle and snort as erotic tingles spread across my body.

My fingers search for his hands, drawing his arms across my stomach as the sharpest part of his chin finds a resting place in the curve of my neck. When he thrusts again, it’s slow, lazy, a Sunday morning pace completely unfitting for our bodies, drenched in blood, filled with adrenaline from the chase, but somehow perfect.

And another orgasm canters onto the horizon, readying itself for delivery, making me clench and flutter and moan. This time, he rides there with me, heads side by side as we stare at the lifeless body of an obscene man.

* * *

We drive backto town afterwards, listening to the radio news. I stiffen as the broadcaster gives a teaser for the next article: heads washing ashore in Diamond Harbour.

A headline that hits far too close to home.

Xander and I exchange a tense glance as I turn up the volume, waiting for the full report.

And we laugh as it talks of doll heads bobbing close to the ferry landing. Apparently because of a jettisoned container, the remains of which have now been hauled from the seabed, but not before its plastic inhabitants went wandering.

I sink back into my seat, Xander driving, the tarpaulin on the seat catching any drops from tonight’s kill. Each year we’re more prepared. Every year we worry it might be the last time, but the last time for this would be good, it would be a dream.

The last time would mean there’s no one on our radar hurting people.

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