Page 52 of Knife Thrower

“Whore!” Raymond shrieks, his voice cracking. “Look at you! Just a cheap, filthy little⁠—”

The insult acts as a violent accelerant. It strips away the last lingering shadow of the scared fifteen-year-old girl who used to count the cracks in the ceiling. It leaves nothing but absolute power.

I lean forward and take Cole’s heavy length into my mouth.

Cole groans. His fingers tangle immediately in my pale blonde hair, gripping the tight knot at the base of my skull. He guides my head, setting a brutal pace, driving himself deep against the back of my throat.

“Good girl,” Cole praises. His voice is a rough, jagged rasp, drowning out Raymond’s frantic ranting. “Take it. You’re so fucking perfect, Sloane.”

I swirl my tongue around the broad head, sucking hard. The contrast scrambles my brain. The sterile smell of the trailer bleach, the sharp, metallic tang of blood in the air, the salty taste of Cole’s skin, the pathetic wailing of my abuser strapped to a chair behind me. The sensory overload coils the heat in my lower belly into a tight, agonizing spring.

I pull back just enough to let my lips slide down Cole’s shaft. My right hand still grips the serrated blade.

I bring the knife up.

I press the flat of the cold steel directly against the heavy, tight sac of his balls.

Cole goes rigid. His breath hitches into a sharp, tearing gasp. The lethal edge rests a fraction of an inch from his flesh. He looks down, and the muscles in his thighs lock tight.

“Sloane,” he chokes out.

I flick my tongue over his frenulum, keeping the blade perfectly steady. The sheer, terrifying vulnerability breaks him. The threat of violence, wrapped in absolute trust, pushes him straight over the edge.

He erupts.

Hot, salty fluid shoots against the back of my throat, and I swallow it down. Every single drop. I milk his length with my lips, holding the knife in place until his legs tremble and his knees nearly buckle.

I pull away, set down the knife, and wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist.

Cole drags oxygen into his burning lungs. He stares at me, completely wrecked, his chest heaving under his dark shirt.

He doesn’t give me time to stand up. He grips my biceps, hauling me off the metal floor. Then he turns, lifting me effortlessly, and sets me down on the edge of the table. The leather roll of his skinning knives sits right next to my hip.

Cole steps between my thighs and unbuttons my black cargo pants, dragging the thick fabric and my underwear down my legs in one brutal pull. He makes quick work of my boots, and tosses the clothes onto the floor, leaving my lower half bare to the chilly air.

He spreads my knees wide.

Raymond seethes, yanking fruitlessly against the thick plastic ties. “Disgusting! You’re going to burn in hell!”

Cole ignores him. He drops to his knees, burying his face directly into my dripping center.

His tongue slashes against my clit. A violent, breathless moan tears out of my lungs. I throw my head back, my spine bowing off the metal table. Cole devours me. He sucks the swollen bundle of nerves into his mouth, applying a firm, relentless pressure, his fingers gripping the backs of my thighs to hold me flush against his face.

I drop my hand. My fingers brush the leather roll, and I pick up one of Cole’s perfectly balanced throwing knives.

I sit up, bracing my left hand on the table edge. Cole’s mouth works furiously between my thighs, biting and lapping at my wet flesh. The pleasure builds, a frantic, blinding heat demanding release.

I weigh the steel in my palm. You can’t learn to catch without understanding exactly how to throw.

I cock my arm back. I don’t look at the steel. I look at Raymond’s right shoulder.

Then I snap my wrist forward.

The blade hums through the air, a silver blur. It buries itself deep into the fleshy meat of his deltoid.

Raymond screams. A long, jagged wail of pure agony.

The sound shoots straight to my clit.