“I don’t. Why do you think I didn’t fix the cameras?” He leans into my ear, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You just have to lay back and be quiet for me.”
His voice sends a shiver down my spine and I realize I’ve walked right into his trap. Maybe he is more similar to a house spider after all, weaving webs five steps ahead of everyone else and lying in wait for his prey. Except, instead of trying to escape, I’m just trying to ignore the fact that my thighs are becoming more soaked by the minute.
But curiosity is quickly overshadowing any sense of logic. I need to know. I need him to tell me I’m not imagining things, even if he is a fucking psycho. I peer at him skeptically and then glance over my shoulder. Minimalist is an understatement. My desk is sparse, devoid of clutter and much of anything else, which is why it’s nothing for Colson to clasp my wrist and gently lower me onto the desktop. He reaches back with both hands and rolls the chair up to sit down, out of my view. When I tilt my head to look, he’s sitting between my knees, surveying my scratched-up legs dangling from the edge of the desk.
“OK, tell me,” I say flatly.
Colson swivels from side to side a few times before his hands disappear beneath my skirt, sending a jolt down my entire body. I inhale sharply as he hooks his fingers over the waistband of my beige thong and tugs it past my ass, working it down my legs. I raise up on my elbows in time to see him pull it free of my feet and lean back in my chair, turning it over in his hands to examine it. And it is drenched.
He glances up at me with a shake of his head, “You still like keeping secrets from me, don’t you?” he smirks as he balls up my underwear and shoves them in his pocket.
Shit.
He rolls forward, spreading my legs again, and I watch with both excitement and horror as he pushes my skirt up to my navel to fully expose me. He pauses, gazing at me hungrily. Then, without a word, he tosses one leg over his shoulder and buries his face between my thighs. I collapse back onto the desk with a gasp, grasping at his hair as I tremble from head to toe. Then he grabs my other knee and wrenches it to the side, opening me wide before he starts tongue-fucking me.
“Baby…” he moans, pausing to leave slow, lingering kisses around my edges, “you taste even better than I remember.”
Soon, he moves higher, circling and sucking my clit until my hips start to move with the rhythm of his tongue. I stifle any sound that dares to escape, gritting my teeth as he devours me.
“Col…” a moan creaks out as the tension builds.
But as soon as he feels my body go rigid, he raises his head and lets the pleasure fade away. I jerk my head up in frustration, drawing a wicked smile from him. He rises from the chair and kicks it back against the cabinet, taking a wide stance between my knees.
“Sorry, you were going to ask me something,” he runs his hands up and down my thighs, dipping his thumbs into the creases of my hips.
I stare up at him, my chest heaving and my pussy aching, and swallow hard. With a long blink, I take a deep breath to compose myself. I’m still determined to make him answer me.
“Why do you have new scars?”
Colson hesitates for a few moments and then reaches behind his back and gives a sharp tug, drawing something from the back of his belt. When he brings his arm back around, there’s a large knife clutched in his fist. It’s a black handled fixed blade with black metal serrated on the bottom with a straight top. My breath catches when the cold blade touches my skin and he brushes the tip up my thigh, leaving white tracks in its path.
“My scars are a record of all the terrible things I can’t change,” he pauses at my hip and lifts the knife over my skirt, “reminders of moments of weakness not to be repeated.” He sweeps his other hand beneath the hem of my shirt and gently pushes it up to expose my stomach, continuing to trace white threads over my skin, “I failed to stop a lot of things that didn’t have to happen. But there was one night that I did.” He slides his hand further up the front of my torso, and with it, my shirt, “I haven’t made any new scars since then.”
When Colson arrives at my chest, he tucks his fingers beneath the underwire of my bra and pushes it up to expose my breasts. His eyes blaze as he tracks the knife’s razor tip up the curve of my skin and then pauses, letting it rise and fall with my breaths, “And I don’t think I’ll have to make any new ones ever again.”
He brushes the tip of the blade against the rosy skin around my nipple, drawing a sharp breath from me. Then he stops, letting the blade rest there. I shift my focus from the knife at my breast to his face above me.
“What did you do?” I murmur, barely breathing as I try not to move beneath the razor tip dangerously close to my nipple, “What did you stop?”
Colson lifts the knife, rests his fist on the desktop, and leans over me, “I made sure you were safe,” he whispers before sinking down and slipping his tongue between my lips, coaxing them open.
“When?” I breathe into his mouth.
He smiles against my lips, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
But I think I already do.
As soon as his tongue dips back into my mouth, I tip my chin and press his lips to mine. For a brief moment, I forget everything around me and shut myself in a box with him, and only him, nicely compartmentalized and wrapped in opaque memories that blot out reality.
“Were you there?” I ask between breaths, “at the Rickhouse?”
“Of course I was,” he murmurs, sending a wave of butterflies through my stomach.
I knew it. I knew it was him. I knew he was there.
He braces one arm on the desktop, his other locked at the elbow to keep his blade at a safe distance. Then he hovers over my breasts, flicking each nipple with the tip of his tongue before raking them between his teeth until my breath catches.
“How did you get in my house?” I murmur between gasps.
He does it twice more, relishing each time I wince in pain, “Through the door,” he closes his mouth and sucks harder until I clench his hair with a gasp.
Arrogant son of a bitch.
He raises up and leers over me, “You know, I’ve missed those sounds you make for me while I mark you up,” I hear each click as he taps the pommel against the wood, “and the louder ones when I make you come.”
I shift my eyes to the side, only catching a slight shadow of his knife in my periphery, “Are you going to cut me again?” my voice shakes, as much as I try to make it stop.
Colson stares down at my torso, focusing on the six-inch scar below my breast, before finally shaking his head.
“No,” he murmurs, “that was the first and last scar I ever give you. And besides,” he examines the edge of the blade, “there are other ways my knife can defile you without desecrating your flawless body.”
Colson slowly rotates the knife in his palm until the blade is pointing down and drops it to my leg. He presses the handle against the inside of my knee and starts to slowly spread it wider. Full-body chills ripple through me and when I tremble with apprehension, it only brings a smile to his face.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my eyes darting to the deadly implement just out of view.
“Seeing what you look like with my knife inside you.” The corner of his mouth curls as he slides the pommel up the inside of my thigh, “Weren’t you listening? Nate wants to hear all about it.”
My heart pounds as Colson drags the handle through my hip crease, pulling the slack of my skirt back up to expose me. Then he hooks his elbow behind my knee and hitches my leg up so my legs are splayed open before him. He leans back slightly, biting his lip as his eyes fall to my slick thighs, and wraps his thumb and forefinger tightly around the hilt, leaving the rest of his hand loosely covering the base of the blade.