Page 41 of Make Them Bleed
Silence pools. She twists a pen between her fingers, then sets it down and shifts her chair closer, knees touching mine fully now. The mask turns the world into tunnel vision. All I see is her mouth.
“Hoover,” she says, barely above a whisper, “touch me.”
Every nerve in my body draws taut.
She doesn’t look away. “Kiss me. Anything. I’m done pretending I’m not…here.”
I should say no. I should remind her we’re working, that lines exist for reasons, that masks protect because they hide. Instead I reach—slow, sure—and take her face in my hands. Latex squeaks against her skin. Her lashes flutter; her breath stutters once. I tilt the mask, angle it so the lower rim grazes her cheek and the edge of her mouth, a hushed drag of cold rubber over warm skin. My thumb finds the spot beneath her ear, presses gently; she shivers like I flipped a switch.
“Closer,” she breathes.
I slide a gloved hand down her throat, feel her pulse hammer against my thumb, then lower, finding the notch of her collarbone. She tips her chin, exposing the line of her neck, trusting and wild. I press the mask’s useless mouth to the corner of her lips—a phantom kiss—and she makes a sound that unspools me.
“Take it off,” she whispers, eyes blown. “Just for a second.”
It’s like there’s a knife between my ribs. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” No accusation… just curiosity. But her fingers are on the edge of the hood now, testing. “I want to see you.”
I catch her wrist, gentle but unyielding. “Not yet.”
A flicker crosses her face—disappointment, then that new, feline calm. She inhales, gathers herself, nods. “Okay,” she says, and the word is velvet over steel. “Then kiss me like this.”
I do. Mask angled, thumb on her jaw, the barest press of rubber and heat and breath until we’re both shaking with what we’re not doing. When I pull back, it’s an act of mercy and self-preservation in equal measure. She swallows, licks her lower lip like she’s trying to keep the feeling.
I tug her onto my lap, wanting to watch her get off again. I keep both hands planted on her hips, and grind her against my hardening cock. “Keep your head down, and ride me through my jeans. Make yourself come for me. I want to watch you get off.”
“Ahh,” she moans as she thrusts herself against me.
I hate all the clothing between us, but this isn’t about that right now. This is about making her forget. About making her happy. And, I’m being a bit selfish… I like getting her to come.
She rides my lap, her hands sitting atop my shoulders. She closes her eyes, leans her head back, her black hair tumbling down her back in waves.
I imagine fucking her like this. Her riding my cock as she comes all over it. Fuck, I need to get inside her. “Use me,” I tell her. “Ride me.”
She speeds up, her hips bucking as she rides me. Sure, I’d love to be doing this for real. No clothing. My cock in her cunt, but I’ll take what I can get. For now.
She rocks against me, and then her hold on me tightens. She wraps her arms around my neck, her mouth close to my ear. “I’m coming,” she whispers a second before her orgasm slams completely through her.
I watch as she rides out the last tremors of her release, and relish that I’m the man making her feel this way.
Even though she doesn’tknowit’s me. That thought deflates me, and as her breathing returns to normal, I watch her, wishing I could tell her who I really am.
What would she think? I picture her slapping me. Good thing she doesn’t know.
Her aftershocks of her orgasm diminish and she smiles up at me, lifting off my lap. “We should go ruin breakfast,” she says, voice husky.
I make myself breathe. “We should.”
She lingers a second, searching the blank eyes of Ghostface like the answer is hiding behind them. Then she pivots to the monitors again, all business. The whiplash is dizzying, but the control is intoxicating. Something is up with her and I don’t know if it’s that she’s finally surrendered to this strange gravity between us—or that she’s holding some card I can’t see.
I bank the question. We don’t have time to peel back layers.
I pull up the Marina Club’s floor plan and mark likely rooms. “We can ghost a reservation. Front desk will think she’s seating you for a client pitch.” I hand Juno a tiny bone-conduction earpiece. “Tap once to transmit, twice to mute. If I sayout, you stand and walk—don’t argue.”
She tucks the earpiece behind her ear, fingers brushing my gloved knuckles like it’s an accident and absolutely not. “Your friends,” she says casually, “are you sure they’re cool with this?”
“Absolutely.” I holster the laptop, making sure my mask is set in place. Before we go, she catches my sleeve.
