Page 32 of Dolls & Daggers
My voice modulator does the trick, transforming my usually chipper tone into a sultry, distorted rasp. His expression morphs into disbelief. As I approach, his wide-eyed gaze locks onto mine.
“Itisyou,” he whispers.
“A little birdie told me you have an obsession.” I twirl my dagger between my fingers, ensuring he sees I’m armed and mean business. The glow from the kitchen catches the blade, his eyes snapping to it beforemeeting mine again. “Do you know what happens when we obsess over things, Wrenley Campbell?”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as I step between the coffee table and the couch. A pretty pink flush blooms on his cheeks as he stares up at me, equal parts mesmerized and fearful, and shakes his head slowly while I wait for him to answer.
Placing a knee on the cushion between his legs, I lean forward and drag the flat of my blade down his chest. “Obsessions poison our minds. They make us weak.” My blade glides lower over his sinfully perfect abs. I grab the back of the couch to anchor myself as I continue pressing closer into his space. “You convince yourself they aren’t bad for you.” Wren’s breath comes in short, sharp bursts. “But in the end,” my mask brushes his face as I whisper in his ear, “most obsessions will kill you.”
I expect my dagger to meet the space between his legs and send terror through the man currently at my mercy. However, my blade meets a mass of steel instead. Wren is hard as stone. Completely turned on. And that discovery sends a flood of warmth pooling in my lower belly.
Warm hands encircle my hips and drag me down abruptly, sliding to my thighs to part my legs around his waist. The hand holding my dagger flies out to join the other against the back of the couch, keeping mesteady. He straightens, still towering over me even while sitting, his lips nearly brushing the ones painted on my mask as he murmurs, “I’m already dead inside.” His hips thrust up, his cock meeting my center through our clothes. “But you can show me a piece of heaven before dragging me to hell.”
The moan that escapes me sounds oddly erotic through the modulator. Wren keeps thrusting, slow and deep, his grip firm on my waist. As much as I’m enjoying this turn of events, the victorious glint in his eye reminds me why I came in the first place—and it isn’t to get off from dry-humping on his couch.
I shove him back, pressing the dagger to his throat. The movement traps his cock between us, the crown sliding against my clit, and I can’t stop my hips from rolling against him. “What kind of sick fuck gets off on a serial killer threatening his life?”
Wren whimpers as I dig the tip of the blade into his skin, a bead of blood welling up. His fingers slide around to grip my ass, guiding my movements, urging me to ride him faster, harder. “You won’t hurt me,” he moans.
Sweat slicks my skin beneath my catsuit. It’s like he’s started a fire in my bones, burning me from the inside out. “And why do you think that?”
The need to rip off my mask and watch him unravel beneath me is infuriating. I want to leanforward and lick his skin, taste his blood like I’m a goddamn vampire, and savor the flavor, knowing he’s bleeding for me—because of me.
“You only hurt men who are guilty,” he grits out, lifting a hand to grasp my wrist. He slows our movements, and somehow, it’s a thousand times more sensual as we share the air in the sliver of space between us. Eyes locked, he slides his thumb beneath the band of my glove, stroking over my pulse point. “And the only thing I’m guilty of is being utterly enchanted by you.”
Pleasure coils low in my belly, fueled by his pretty words and the soft, breathy moans spilling from his lips. I’ve never been with such a vocal man before, and it’s unlocking something primal inside me, a door my ovaries seem determined to launch themselves through.
Attempting to regain control, I twist my wrist free, press up on my knees, and sheath my dagger before dropping back down, rubbing against him with sharp jerks of my hips.
“Oh fuck,” he whimpers, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut.
“That’s right.” My hands run up his chest, fingers curling over his shoulders, fucking him dry and wishing there weren’t any barriers between us. “Come for mommy.”
Wrenley
My eyes snap open, fingers tightening. The skin around her eyes pinches, almost like she’s in pain, effectively stopping my movements just as I’m about to come.
Instinct takes over. My hands shove outward, flinging the Doll off my lap and onto the coffee table. It holds her weight—though my beer ricochets across the room.
“What the fuck?” she demands. The modulator makes the question sound comical, though there’s nothing funny about the situation.
“I-I’m sorry… I…” Words fail me. My heart stutters in my chest, and it’s painful to breathe. The ache, though, is nothing compared to the sheer humiliation throbbing through my rapidly deflating cock.
It wasn’t the Doll I was thinking of. Even though I’ve imagined this scenario a million times—dreamed of having this moment with her—it was Dove who had occupied my mind.
Dove’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde hair. The image of her in the Doll’s place, head thrown back as she took her pleasure from me. And right when I was about to fucking come in my pants to thoughts of a woman who utterly annoys the fuck out of me, the second I heard the wordmommy…
It was like the world slammed to a halt.
Dove and that vile fucking wordcannotbecome synonymous. It’s already bad enough that their appearances are so similar.
Embarrassed and ashamed, I force myself to look into the dark depths behind the Doll’s mask. A real-life serial killer just rode me to near completion, and I shoved her off like she had cooties.
Wordlessly, she stands. I reach for her, but she pulls away, rounding the table and fleeing down the hall.
Pushing to my feet, I rush after her, adrenaline pumping through my veins at the lost chance to make a connection. “Wait!”
But by the time I reach my room and lean out the open window, she’s already gone. I scour the fire escape, looking for any clue she was there at all. A dropped dagger, a scrap of material from her bodysuit—fuck, even a hair from her wig, but she’s left no trace behind.
