Page 17 of A Shot in the Dark
The girl who’s always had certain standards is really not that picky…
Not right now.
I am nothing but a bundle of raw nerve endings craving stimulation—a lonely guitar string in need of a good, firm plucking.
The scent of cigarette smoke seeps through the ill-fitting door and I wonder who’s standing on the walkway right outside my door. I stretch up to peer through the peep hole but only see a few twisting threads of smoke. I undo the chain and slide the bolt back, turning the knob, ever so slowly…
Before I can fully open the door, Boots has stormed into my room, cigarette smoke trailing him as he secures the door—bolt and chain—one gloved hand wrapping just below my jawline and forcing my head back as he moves me back towards the bed.
I am the hapless gazelle and he is the lion primed to tear me apart.
“Going somewhere, princess?”
A pulse of sensation spirals through me, tightening the very core of me as the breath catches in my throat immediately beneath the press of his hand.Fuck me.
“Mnoo,” I wheeze.
“That’s not what it looked like. Looked like you were headed out the door for something.” His nostrils flare and I get a hint of eyebrows. “Maybe a quick fuck?”
I manage “...looking for you…”
His grip lessens the smallest bit and it’s more like he’s cradling my skull than readying to crush it. Even so, his breath scalds my neck when he grits out, “Your affiliation?”
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes and he suddenly relents, yanking his hand away with the same alarming speed he first applied it. I paw at my throat, gasping, “I don’t have any! Don’t you fucking get it? I have no one! Fuck me or kill me—no onewill care.”
He turns his head away from me, his expression dark and unreadable. When he faces me again, the predatory lines of hisface have only sharpened. “You were headed out for a fuck, right, princess?”
My eyes dart around the room, panic building in me along the heat of my need.Shit. This is the room where I’m going to die and the decor is probably best described as a mix of the forgotten 1960s meets “Jackson Pollock by blacklight.”
Shit.
And still I admit, “Yes.” I do not lie, I do not try to convince him otherwise. For some reason, I simply can’t. I have never wanted anyone—anything—this much… Everything about me feels warm and wet and infinitely pliable.
“Then there’s only one thing to be done for that…” Boots growls, replacing his hand on my throat, almost gently now, like he’s savoring the moment.
Closing my eyes, I tremble, waiting for the end to come.
His breath hot in my ear, he reminds me, “Your safe word is Mercedes,” and everything about me loosens, relaxes. “Repeat after me: My safe word is Mercedes.” My legs quiver but the aching need inside me only grows.
“My safe word is Mercedes.” I lean into him, my knees threatening to buckle. He smells so…dangerous, so male.
“Are you awake enough to consent?”
I am awake enough for anything involving Boots. “Yes.”
He inhales deeply, his chin lifting. “Do you know what’s happening to you?”
“What?”
He drops his hand from my throat and, brushing a gloved thumb across my forehead, he sighs like he’s confirming some suspicion. Then the cold but sensual smile I’m coming to equally loathe and revere slides across his lips and I stretch up on my tiptoes to nip at his jaw.
I don’t even recognize my voice when I snarl, “Ihatewhat you’re doing to me.”
The smile blooms, becoming a hungry grin. “I’m not doing anything to you unless you want me to.”
I’ve never wanted anything more and he knows it.
“Do you want to use your safe word?”
