The blade against her palm winks brightly as she cradles the knife like a baby.
“Come here.”
I groan into her sweaty hair and grind my hips, excited by the danger caught between us.
She nicks my stomach only once during the act, and a scarlet dribble slides down our abdomens and adds to the mess we are making below.
Flesh yields deeply, wetly; the exquisite heat enveloping us.
When we step apart, the body slumps, skull rebounding off the cracked linoleum, and a pretty arc of scarlet spatters over her pale toes.
This wasn’t the three-way he was expecting.
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alt="Heartwood by R.J. Cannon"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Denied by J.B. Corso"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Cold Recognition by Andreas Flögel"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Winter Feast by Pauline Yates"
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