Page 50 of Pink Ink

I nod.

I’m willing to admit my own shortcomings. Not knowing the classes of nuts is one of them. A fact that will change before the day ends.

Her throat bobs, and the traitorous, torturous, perverted part of my psyche pictures her splayed out on her back, head tipped over the edge as I watch her choke on every inch of my cock I feed her. Not exactly something I should be thinking about when discussing anaphylaxis.

“What are you doing here?”

My eyes snap to hers. Fuck. If I stand for another second with her mouth in line with my groin, she’ll see just what she does to me.

Invading her personal space yet again, I lower myself into the chair next to hers and start reading the screenwriting assignment she never offered to show me.

“I-It’s not very good. It’s still a draft. So don’t judge it—or read it for that matter. I’m just getting the skeleton down,” she rushes out, but doesn’t seem to dare move closer as her eyes flicker between me and the two inches of space between our knees.

Her bloody throat bobs again.

There is quite literally nothing stopping me from fucking off back to my office because Lord knows I have a lot of things to do. None of which include picturing myself throat fucking my student.

Instead, in a move that can only be described as willful self-sabotage, I nod my head at the document on the computer. “Is anyone dying in it?”

She blinks, mouth opening and closing before she realizes what I’m referring to. “No, but someone cuts off their own leg,” she says skeptically.

“How?”Not why.

She notices that too, if her narrowing eyes are any indication. “An axe.”

I hum.

“What?” Reyna crosses her arms, and I curse every god in existence when it makes her breasts swell over the neckline of her chocolate-brown dress and—fuck my life—her skirt rides up her thighs. “You think it’s screwed up and disgusting?”

I frown. I, for one, very much dislike the implication that someone might have said that to her. “No, I was going to say it’s overdone. Why not a standard wood saw?”

Her lips part on anO, and the soft blush that kissed her cheeks earlier blazes pink. It’s like a candle flickers to life behind her eyes, because she brightens and the lines around her frame soften.

She shakes her head. “Too time-consuming.”

True. Messy too. “A chainsaw is quick.”

“But not personal enough.”

“A cleaver,” I suggest.

A soft divot forms between her brows. It’s the same look she gets whenever she’s thinking hard in class.

“A bread knife would be kind of comedic—or a cheese knife.” A subtle grin twists her lips as she speaks, and it takes everything in me to fight back my own.

“Just as time-consuming as a saw.”

Her long hair drifts over her shoulders as she tips her head to the side. “I’m actually curious to know which one would be faster.”

Don’t offer to find out for her, I tell myself. But I mentally note to discover the answer. For myself, obviously. Professional curiosity.

The irony isn’t lost on me. She’s learning composition; I’m perfecting decomposition.

I shrug. “Money’s on the bread knife. Worse grip, but sturdier blade.”

“Huh. That’s a good point.” She purses her lips, the corners tipping upward. “It might work, actually. I have him making himself toast every morning as part of his monotonous routine.”

She’s practically hand-feeding me ideas for my own work. I believe I have a chef somewhere on my kill list. “Will the blood be pink in that assignment too?”