Sociopath

I ease away the damp gusset of her panties. I can't see her *, but no matter—I'd rather watch her expression twist as I make contact with her swollen flesh. Because she is swollen. Her outer lips peel apart easily, hot and full and slick.

"I'm a big man with a gun," I tell her softly. "A big man who isn't afraid to pull a trigger. But then...you already know that." The firm rise of her clit meets my thumb. I pinch it; her teeth sail into her bottom lip. Gorgeous. I cross my index and middle finger, drop them to the gape of her *, and corkscrew into the channel that tension has kept tight.

Leo balls her fists. Arches her back. Bears down on me, surprisingly hard. I work my fingers into her with brief, hard thrusts until her * gives and lets me sink past the knuckle. All the while, I watch her; she gulps the air down but refuses to make a sound—which won't do at all, will it? My cock throbs at the feel of her. Further I go, pushing until I come up against the firm pucker of her cervix and she lets out a brief squeal. If I get any deeper inside her, she'll probably choke before she comes.

I edge up a little so we're eye-to-eye. The gun still sits in my right hand, and I bring it to stroke her chin while my other hand moves between her thighs. "Leo. Look at me."

Nothing. She's working so hard to stay still.

I hook my fingers up inside her and shove them into a softer spot, the one right beneath her clit that will force her to respond. And respond, she does; her eyes shoot open and she stifles a gasp. I'm pressing hard, circling now—harder than a girl might ask me to—but the muscles of her * begin to ease and undulate with pleasure. With relief.

"You like that?" I whisper.

Wet, fleshy sounds punctuate her panting. What does she have to be ashamed of, I'd wondered? Looky, grasshoppers. Exhibit fuckin' A.

"I asked you to do something." This time, I prod her cheekbone with the tip of the gun. Let her smell the oil and solvent; let her panic over the visions they evoke. Her black button eyes meet mine, and they are pools of sticky longing, hot tar on a baked summer road.

Suddenly, she tips her chin and lets out a moan—a wrought, desperate sound. Her features relax, tense up again; she hates me for this.

Leo begins to rock against my fingers, just slightly. Perhaps she hopes I won't notice. But I see everything, even in darkness—my night vision is stronger than most. Even if I failed to acknowledge the erratic shift of her hips, her * quivers and contracts with every stroke. I know a burgeoning orgasm when I feel one. I know, when she starts to gasp, how close she is.

I push the gun further into the smooth skin of her left cheek, and run my tongue along the right. She tastes like smoked honey, like New York and money and the iron stench of blood. "I saw you taste me," I murmur into her ear. "On the ledge, at the ball. I bled on your fingers and you licked it up. What do you think that makes you?"

No words. But she finds the courage to look at me again, to beg me with those beautiful eyes.

"I know what you are," I tell her, repeating what she said to me not fifteen minutes ago. "Oh sweetheart, I know. Fuck, you're getting so tight."

"Mmm...I..."

I drop my lips just an inch from hers. Last time, I forced her; this time, I want a willing mouth. "Kiss me."

She straightens against the mattress. Tries to twist her face away, but succeeds only in shoving her cheek into the gun.

"If you want to come, you'll kiss me, Leo." I slow my fingers and drag them just a few millimetres from her most sensitive spot. Pure torment, no matter how hard she tries not to show it. "Am I making myself clear?"

"I, ah, I w-won't." She shakes her head, eyes closed. "No."

"I'm beginning to think you actually enjoy refusing me." I jerk my fingers inside her, forceful and hard.

It hurts her all the more when she expects pleasure. "No—!"

Enough of this. I could force both her kiss and her orgasm, but they'd be half as victorious and not nearly as satisfying. I pull my fingers out, push the gun up beneath her chin. Make her watch as I bring my hand to my lips. If I was hard before...Jesus. The flavour of her, all salt and sweet; even my cock wants a taste.

"I'm going to leave now," I say in a low voice. "You'll stay here until I'm gone. I want you to think very carefully about how, despite the fact that you had the gun and the secret, I'm the one who won."

She skips a breath. Quivers. Her legs are still wide apart, no doubt to usher cool air toward the flesh I've made so tender.

"I'll be interested to hear your thoughts on the contract tomorrow. You have my card." I finally release her, easing off the bed to stand. "I'll leave your gun on the table in the hallway."

She stares up at me and swallows. "Q—quite the gentleman."

I shoot her a grin, dimples and all. Run my palm over her bare knee as I walk past. "If you want to finish yourself off, I won't judge, sweetheart."

There's a hiss of something that sounds like go fuck yourself, but I'm already too far away to make sure. Or to care.

She had the gun.

She had the secret.

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