Page 29 of Antihero
My jaw works. "This doesn’t concern you."
"Come, murderess, we both know it does." He looms over me, something I can’t fight.
“Fine,” I say, suddenly feeling a little intimidated. How madishe about my last visit? I’d planned to go back, make nice, maybe try offering him a blowjob again. But that was before he showed up here. “Another day, then—” My words get cut off, as is my retreat, when Tristan grabs my arm, tugging me back to face him.
“I’m not done with you,” he growls.
My heart does a little flip, fear and excitement mingling as he dwarfs me. His scent fills my senses, distinctly man, chopped firewood and something like rain.
“I know you’ve got a knife on you somewhere. Give it to me.”
I blink, vague notions of stabbing him and making a run for it. When I only stand, staring back into those angry green eyes, he smirks, which is somehow even more worrying.
Then he rips my blouse open.
I gasp as his rough hands find the skin of my ribs. Not in a sensual way. A searching one. He finds the small switchblade tucked against my hip.
I grimace as he holds the opened blade up between us. It’s far from my favourite knife. But I lost my favourite one while I was riding him, when I lost sense of everything except the bone-shaking orgasm I brought myself to astride him.
“Insurance?” he asks. But he’s not done there. My breath catches, body flinching forward and pressing against his hard chest as his fingers clutch high on my thigh, roughly tugging my skirt up, finding my garter and my garrotting cord. He looks just long enough to ascertain what it is, then tosses it aside.
The tip of the knife blade lifts my chin. “I guess you’re a little upset about the home invasion?” I suggest tentatively.
He turns, the knife still at my chin, forcing me to turn with him so that the small of my back brushes the sink. "You didn't ask for permission,” he murmurs, voice low. “If that’s the bar you want to set, Cutthroat, I'm happy to meet you there."
My legs already feel a little weak. Thoughts of Harry downstairs waiting for me to return, and me waiting to murder him, fade abruptly. Tristan’s eyes linger on my mouth. He lifts his thumb of the hand that holds the blade, and he tugs my lower lip down. “Such a nice mouth…” he purrs, sending my heart thumping in a whole new way, “Do you remember what I said would happen once I had a knife at your throat?”
He watches my face, taking in everything about my expression. The widening of my eyes, the way my gaze flicks down his stomach, where the coveralls bunch up low on his hips. I wet my lips. My reach for him is slow, waiting for his word. No mistake, he’s the one in control here, and he’s more than a little angry at me. I push the plumber’s wear a little lower, finding the base of his singlet, and the soft skin low on his belly. Then he’s a hard, thick rod in my hand, and I watch him right back. His hold on me doesn’t falter, but there’s a waver in his eyes, a darkening in his gaze, as I squeeze him just a bit firmer than necessary.
I consider waiting for him to order me onto my knees, then take myself there before he can decide against trusting me after all. I want to taste him, to feel him quiver against my lips. The knife follows my descent. Tristan never breaks eye contact. A slight frown between his brows as I come down to the hard, cold tiles. He’s still suspicious of me, which is fair enough.
That frown smooths abruptly as I close my mouth over his tip, sucking immediately and hard.
The flat of the knife presses cool on my cheek, and I don’t care about it anymore as I draw in more of him, slowly wetting himas far as I can before he hits the back of my throat and makes me gag. His free hand tangles in my hair, pushing me back more than pulling me forward, like he’s resisting that. But I can hear the raggedness of his breath, feel the way his hand shakes, his hips swaying forward as I draw him out slowly. My knees complain, I feel runs forming in my stockings as I grip the base of him and swirl my tongue over his head.
“That’s enough,” his voice strains out, an order I don’t want to obey.
I look up at him again, defiant from this position of worship, and he uses my hair instead to draw me back up, depriving me of the taste of him. “Not enjoying yourself?” I ask, knowing full well he was.
“Shut up,” his answer is a grunt, as he pushes me back. No sooner am I on my feet than they leave the ground again, my butt lifted onto the front edge of the antique sink. Tristan pushes my knees open and comes close, tipping me backwards. One warning look, then the knife leaves my chin, and I jolt when he fists his hands in the crotch of my stockings and tears them open.
“Jesus!” I gasp. I’m going to have no clothes left intact by the end of this encounter. He tugs me back to the edge, and the knife clatters into the sink. His hand winds into my hair to tilt my head back, exposing my throat to his teeth. My breath catches, and rather than my skin being cool where my stockings are ripped, all I feel is hot and impatient.
I’m already panting, anticipating the feel of him. His hand cups me through my opened shirt, turning the lip of my bra down under my nipple. I let out a strained breath, face tipped to the ceiling, unable to see him. I can only feel him.
His breath is hot below my earlobe. I can feel it all the way down my chest. “Did sucking my cock make you wet for me?”
“Fuck you,” I breathe out, the last word turning into something else as he catches my nipple between his teeth.
“Youdidfuck me, Cutthroat, don’t you remember?” His lips brush my throat, counting my pulse through that contact. As though my silence is an answer, he jogs my memory. “I was injured, thanks to you. Andyouhad the knife.”
Even if I hadn’t guessed it before, I’m now sure that this is payback. “This isn’t the place,” I breathe, though unconvincingly, as his tongue sweeps over my nipple, warm and rough, in contrast with the cool air on my now wet skin, when he briefly moves away. “If Harry hears something…”
“Then don’t make noise. Don’t come. That’s on you.”
“Fuck you,” I gasp again.
“Hm, slow learner.” When he pulls me off the sink, I’m almost disappointed, but that doesn’t last long. Spun around, the front of my hips jammed against the basin, Tristan comes up hard against my back. Our reflection tips away from me in the mirror as his hand on my throat tilts my head back against his shoulder. My skirt, already ridden up, gets hitched even higher by his other hand, right before he tugs my underwear down over my ass.
