Page 209 of Intense
I wonder how it would feel to kill like Finn? To have blood really on my hands.
My fingers hover over the choices, and I feel his eyes on me, tracking every move.
“You’re hesitating,” he says. I hear the undertone; he’s daring me to prove him wrong.
I pick up a scalpel; I don’t want to leave more scars. But maybe he needs new ones to remind him of something better when he looks at them.
When I face him again, his head tilts ever so slightly, like he’s curious to see which part of him I’ll touch first.
I move in close, the chair creaking under the shift of his weight as I straddle his thighs. My free hand grips his jaw, holding his gaze steady.
“I could make you bleed,” I murmur. “But you already bleed for me in ways you don’t realize.”
The scalpel’s edge kisses the side of his throat, just enough to let him feel how precise my hand is. His pulse flutters beneath the blade, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Do it,” he says.
I shake my head, dragging the cold steel across his chest instead until it rests over his heart.
“This isn’t about hurting you, Finn,” I say softly. “It’s about making you understand you don’t have to hide from me.”
His breath deepens, but he stays silent.
So I press the blade down just enough to break the skin. A thin red line blooms against his tattooed chest. His muscles flex beneath me, his eyes locked on mine.
“What made you want to become a surgeon?” I ask.
His jaw works, but nothing comes out.
I lean in, my lips brushing his ear. “Do you think anything you tell me at this point will change how I feel about you? It won’t.”
I set the scalpel aside, my hands gripping the arms of the chair as I kiss him hard, taking his mouth like I’m claiming it. His wrists strain against the restraints, his body pushing into mine.
When I pull back, his breathing is ragged.
“This is your trial, Dr. Quinn,” I whisper. “And I’m not stopping until you let me in.”
With a wicked smile, I lean down and lick up the blood dripping down his chest.
I could hurt him by not allowing him access to me.
It doesn’t need to just be physical wounds. What we have is more than that.
Sliding one hand behind me, I cup his growing dick in my hand, and I squeeze.
“What made you want to become a surgeon?” I press.
“My first kill,” he says bluntly.
Okay. I have an answer. That makes me smile.
“Who was it?” I ask.
He swallows as I remove my hand from his dick and instead, grip his throat.
“My best friend's parents. I was ten.”
My eyes go wide. Ten years old. Murdering? I knew the mafia was bad; it’s engrained into their kids from a young age. But that seems absurd.
