Page 25 of Enemy of the State

Outside of being strapped to an exam table, being naked has never bothered me. I own my beauty. In my line of work, being physically fit is a matter of survival—fine, I like feeling and looking hot, too—and I work hard to maintain my toned physique.I’m proud of my body and the power it wields.

Unfailingly, I handsomely reward my body for its strength, fierceness, and stamina that I brandish like a superpower. I’ve been with countless men and women alike, but I’ve never felt more desired in my entire life than when Digs’s silvery-blue eyes observe my naked form, blazing with unfettered heat. The sultry flames ofhis gaze lapped at my skin in the shower, and that fire’s intensity doesn’t appear to have abated in the slightest. A primal hunger has leaked into the swirling cyclone of his gaze, and unbridled satisfaction surges through me. I’m affecting him, and I rather like that.

A mild twisting sensation flashes through my breasts, and I know without looking that my nipples are tightening. Chancing a look down, I find that he’s tenting the front of his trousers, which has my lips tweaking into a smirk. When my eyes meet Digs’s once again, the lusty look that was just there is nearly eclipsed by the shadowy imperilment.

I fight a shiver as his eyes narrow in warning, but the bulging vein in his neck that slithers out from beneath the bottom of his mask like a hungry snake already told me that his grip on control is quickly slipping. My heart rate spikes as my tantalizing smile broadens.

He’s making me nervous, but in an anticipatory, yet pleasant way. Right now, his darkness is a mirror that I’m more than comfortable gazing into. For the first time, I don’t necessarily feel in danger—not yet. I’m not complacent, though. I know things could change. Should that happen, I’m prepared to allow the bomb inside me to detonate, raining down shrapnel on everything standing in my way.

My breath hitches as the sharp scratch of the spine of the steel blade lazily trails up my abdomen and between my breasts. We both slant our heads, my chest expanding with each breath, as we observe the weapon ascending my body unhurriedly, leaving behind bright pink tracks that look more like poisonous vines.

Suddenly, he deviates from his path, gingerly dragging the blade over my left breast, then the snake’s head tattooed over my callous heart. He moves to my right breast, repeating the process before flicking my nipple with the tip of the knife, blood bubbling to the surface and seeping from the wound.

A venomous look slashes across my face as the sight of myown spilled blood spikes my adrenaline, and I chastise, “You fucking nicked me. I’ve killed men for less, you know.”

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes still unlit. “You want to kill me for scratching you?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve done worse to you, yet a little scratch is what will be my downfall?”

Amused, I snort, my lips spreading into a daring, seductive grin. “That was simply a little foreplay, Digs.”

His eyes go from dark to a shade so black that it reminds me of a moonless night sky in the Finnish countryside. His wrist flicks as he swirls his knife over my left nipple, taunting me. “And what would you call what we’re doing right now, Lou?”

“I suppose that all depends on your end game.”

Consider me gobsmacked because his free hand moves to lift the bottom of his mask up over his mouth, revealing a small glimpse of the sharp jawline and perfectly masculine, rosy lips that have remained hidden beneath mesh.

Bloody hell.

My tongue practically wags in the confines of my mouth with the desire to lick along the smooth, squared-off, tanned skin I’m able to see before he dips his head, sucking my blood-tinged nipple into his hot mouth. His lips tug hard, his tongue swirling around the bud, exploring, and a low growl rumbles from his chest, making my pussy flutter.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the sensation, my head growing lighter than it’s been in weeks—months?—with the glimmer of pleasure. Digs sucks harder, and a breathy moan slips past my lips as my chest rises and falls rapidly. I’m nearly panting by the time he pulls back.

If I were to list all the ways I thought this torture session might go today, this wouldn’t have been in the top million, maybe billion.

He rights his mask before facing me again, his eyes dancingwith aphotic amusement. As he sinks to one knee in front of me, my stomach drops along with his movement, his masked face level with the apex of my thighs. Lifting the knife, he wordlessly drags the sharp edge of the blade through the waistband of my trousers and down my leg, slicing the fabric as he goes. He cuts me out of my other pant leg and yanks the scraps from my body.

My core squeezes and my chest tightens as my mind begins to whirl, tripping over itself in an attempt to understand what’s happening.Is this some kind of test? What the living fuck is he planning to do? Why can’t I make sense of this situation?

Two sets of heavy breaths are the only sounds that can be heard within this concrete room. Daring to look down, I find him analyzing my body. And while I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, I can’t help but ponder the fact that I’m not clean, not having bathed since that day in the washroom with Digs.

A few years ago, I lost interest in the upkeep of shaving and waxing and chose to have electrolysis nearlyeverywhere, removing every scrap of unwanted hair. Thanking my lucky stars I had that done, I make a mental note to send my electrologist a second tip when I get out of here. Who knew that would come in handy, but the fact that I’m not clean still irks me. Then, I remember that Digs is the one who’s responsible for that, so he can deal with those consequences.

Refocusing my attention on maintaining even breaths, I attempt to ignore the way my skin prickles as he glides his free hand up the inside of my pale olive-hued skin, his tan complexion a stark contrast with my own. After his manual exploration of my smooth legs, he flips the knife in his hand, sliding the spine of the blade up the inside of my left leg, beginning at my ankle, painting my skin with more of those noxious vines. By the time he reaches my inner thigh, my shoulders and chest heave with unsteady breaths.

He looks up at me as he demands, “Be a good little convict and tell me what I want to know.”

That gets my attention, but the knife’s blunt side is nowperilously close to my cunt, so I try to remain calm as I reply breathlessly. “Not…a convict.”

The chuckle that reverberates from him can only be described as sinister. “No?”

My voice is firmer this time as I grind out, “No. To call me a convict would imply that I’ve been convicted of my crimes. I’ve not had a trial; therefore, I’m not a convict.”

The bastard halts the knife just above my clit, looking up at me now. “Are you saying that you didn’t commit the crimes you’ve been accused of?”

A smile dripping with the threat of blood and violence crawls across my face. That’s all the answer he’s getting, especially considering I haven’t heard a single person tell me what crimes I’ve been accused of committing, not that it necessarily matters.

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