Page 45 of Caution Tape

She meets my gaze and smiles. “I don’t really care what you do to them.” She licks her lips. “I’m more interested in what you’re going to do to me.”

“Don’t move.”

I straighten up and walk to the bins and pull out the tape, the plastic, and the knives. I should kill her. That is the clearest, most calculated answer. She has tracked me this far, and knows what I am. No amount of personal connection is worth the risk she poses.

I hear something clink, and the rustle of clothing. As I turn around, I see that Cora has stripped off her clothing and is sitting on top of the table in a white bra and black panties. Her legs are spread slightly as she leans back on her hands and grins at me.

I really, really need to kill her.

I cross the room holding the knives and plastic, but she doesn’t flinch.

“I told you not to move,” I say quietly.

One of her bare feet rises up and gently caresses the crotch of my boxer briefs. I notice the faded, peeling turquoise nail polish.

“You don’t seem to mind,” she says, tilting her chin at my growing erection, straining against the fabric.

The smile on her face is cut off as I grab her by the throat, slamming her down onto the table with a heavyclangas the metal buckles slightly from the force. Her hands wrap around my wrist tightly, but she’s not prying my fingers away, and that fucking smile hasn’t left her face.

Kill her now, Nolan. Do it.

I frown; I rarely have inner thoughts. I’m never of two minds about anything. I am honed and focused; more of a sentient ballistic missile than a man.

So why the hesitation? Why the gnawing curiosity as to how far this will go? Every survival instinct is sounding the alarm, a thudding pulse rising in my ears, a low voice deep in the recesses of my mind telling me to put this fire out, now, before it spreads and torches the entire forest, burning down the entirety of Nolan.

The knife is still in my right hand as I loom over her. Her eyes watch it for a moment, then flick over and meet my gaze. Daring me.

I press the blade to her neck, fascinated with the way her body tenses, the veins appearing on the sides of her throat, the slight widening of her eyes, and her smile fading ever-so-slightly. My face is a remorseless mask; I refuse to give her any hint of my intentions. Cora confuses me. Excites me. Interests me. But that falls apart the moment one of us stops playing the game.

I trail the flat side of the knife down her collarbone, dragging the tip firmly against her skin, drifting along the curve of one of her breasts, watching the blade press into her flesh, daring it to break open and begin to bleed.

I wonder if she has any idea of the danger she is in. I’m certain that if I see blood in this moment, I will lose control and the game will end in stunning, glorious violence.

The knife slips under each bra strap, and with a firm tug it cuts cleanly through, the white cups falling loosely to the side as I cut it off her, my hand never leaving her throat.

My grip loosens slightly though, and she mutters, “Are you going to stab me or fuck me, Nolan?”

I release her neck to cover her mouth with my palm, her lipstick smearing against my hand—it is still wet, she applied it for my benefit—and turning her head away from me. The sudden movement makes her legs kick out, the table clanging once again. Still holding the knife in the other hand, I pin one of her legs down. Her thrashing causes the blade to nick her, a thin red scratch appearing on her inner thigh. I freeze, staring at it, painfully aware that I’ve never been this aroused in my life. Not with Natalie, not with anyone.

The voice telling me to kill her and run has gotten quieter, and when I lean down and put my lips to the scratch, finally tasting the soft warmth of her skin, the voice is blissfully silent. I kiss up and down her thigh, starting at her knee and working upwards, letting just a hint of my tongue touch her until I get to the scratch again, and then I lick it fully, my tongue flat and hot as I trace the entire length of it.

She grabs the back of my head, gathering a fistful of my hair, thrusting her hips upward toward me, but I shake her off.

“Not yet.”

She glares at me and I almost smile. It occurs to me that I am having fun. Knife still in hand, I begin slowly, gently rubbing her over the flimsy cotton underwear she’s wearing. She’s soaked, and the thin bit of fabric is such a tease. I increase the pressure, using my index and ring finger to spread her lips apart under the panties, my middle finger firm against her clit, stroking up and down, working in tight, determined circles. I wonder briefly if I’m hitting the right spot, a bolt of some feeling that must be insecurity.

Why does she do this to me?

Suddenly Cora is raising herself up on her elbows, her breath hitching, her moans rising in pitch, and getting more and more breathless.

“Faster, please, faster,” she murmurs, and that’s when I remove my hand completely, stepping away and grabbing the roll of plastic. A look of pure rage and frustration darkens on her face as she watches me.

“Do not stop.”

It is not a question. It is a command, only I’m not her boyfriend, or any of her playthings. I ignore her and drag her to her feet, pulling her around by her hair like she is my pet.

“Put your arms to your sides. Tight.”

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