Page 52 of Cruel When He Smiles
I cross one leg over the other, lean back, and rest my cheek against my knuckles, watching with the same detached interest I’d give to a nature documentary. I’m not here for the show; I’m simply waiting for it to be over.
Killian doesn’t rush. He’s never in a hurry when taking what he wants. He keeps his gaze locked on mine, like the mouth around his cock is just white noise, a convenience, a background hum to the real game playing out between us. And I let him have the eye contact, even with his eyes half-lidded from pleasure.
He’s testing me.
Again.
The guy between his legs makes a desperate noise, gagging faintly as Killian tightens his grip and thrusts hard into his mouth. It’s sloppy, loud, and wet; the sound that would make anyone else shift uncomfortably or roll their eyes and walk out.
He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs, holding the guy’s head down until he turns red and coughs before letting go. “What’d you do, little brother?”
I glance at my nails. “I fed a starving dog,” I say coolly. “And watched him pretend he wasn’t hungry.”
Killian’s smile is lazy and razor-edged. “Hold that thought,” he says and groans again, more breath than sound this time, and Iknow he’s close. He pushes the guy’s head down harder, forces one last shuddering thrust, and then he goes still.
When he comes, he doesn’t flinch or even sigh. And when the boy pulls off, mouth slick and panting like he’s just run a fucking marathon, Killian pats his cheek twice—absent and impersonal—and says, “There’s a good boy. You can go now.”
The guy scrambles up, wiping at his mouth, red-faced and dazed. He catches sight of me before he leaves, and his expression tightens like I’m the threat he should’ve been worried about all along, and not the literal murderer whose cum he swallowed. He bolts, closing the door with a slam.
Killian wipes himself off with a t-shirt from the floor and tosses it across the room into his hamper. Then he tucks in his pierced cock and falls back on the bed like a prince exhausted from too much worship.
“Jesus, that was boring,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Mouth like a vacuum. No soul in it.”
“You say that about all your toys.”
“Because it’s true every time. But you,” he turns his head to look at me, lips quirking as he studies my face, “that smile is either post-orgasm or pre-homicide. And knowing you, I’m guessing both.”
My smirk deepens. I uncross my legs, lean forward with my elbows on my knees, and tap a finger against my lower lip. “Not every mess ends with a body,” I murmur, brushing invisible lint from my sleeve. “Some of them you just leave bleeding without giving them the courtesy of death.”
“Do tell,” he drawls, already sounding entertained.
I glance at the ceiling, thinking of Nate submitting to my soft side, and I smile wider.
“Nate truly believes I’m a safe space now,” I say, almost idly.
Killian barks a laugh, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You’re joking.”
I shake my head. “Dead serious. He came apart in my hands and let me talk him through another panic attack.”
His gaze sharpens. “Youtalkedhim through it?”
“He was dissociating.” I reach into my pocket, pull out a cigarette, and light it with the matte black Zippo lighter I stole from Killian three years ago. He never asked for it back, and I know he probably enjoyed knowing I carried a piece of him everywhere I went. “Didn’t say a word for almost ten minutes. Eyes wide, teeth clenched. He couldn’t even move or speak before I got to him.”
Killian studies me for a long beat. His smile doesn’t move, but his posture shifts, and tension tightens the air between us. “So, instead of finishing the job,” he says slowly, voice flatter now, “you… grounded him?”
I nod, blowing smoke out the side of my mouth. “Pinned him to his car and talked him down.”
Killian whistles, long and impressed. “Didn’t think you’d actually be gentle with him. You were doing so well pretending you didn’t care.”
“I don’t care,” I say smoothly, and it’s almost true. “This isn’t about need; it never was. I just needed to know what kind of leash he’d take. Turns out, the soft one fits best.”
He narrows his eyes at that. “Soft?”
I nod once, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “Brutality works, but he expects that from me. He’s been trained to brace for impact. But gentleness? He doesn’t know what to do with that, or how to guard against it. So, he leans into it.”
Killian swings his legs over the side of the bed and plants his feet on the ground, elbows on his knees now, matching my posture. “You always were better at slow burns than me.”
“That’s because I don’t burn,” I murmur, my voice deadly even. “I rot. Quietly. Beautifully. And by the time you notice the stench, it’s already inside your lungs.”
