Chapter 30
Calloway
The point of the knife is a single, cold thought against my cock. A perfect, terrifying focus in the darkness of her bedroom. My entire world narrows to that single point of pressure and the wild, beautiful storm in Jiya’s eyes.
“Say it,” I breathe, the words a rough demand against her ear. My fingers tangle in the soft silk of her hair, pulling her closer.
Her body is a wire pulled taut, trembling with a war I can see raging in her gaze. Fear. Defiance. And something else, something deeper that mirrors the raw, aching need in my chest.
“Fuck you,” she gasps, the words breaking, stripped of their venom, leaving only a desperate, ragged edge.
“Say. It.”
The fight goes out of her in a single, shuddering breath. “Fine! I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”
The confession leaves her in a rush of air, and the room goes dead silent. The rigid line of her jaw softens, the fury in her eyes dims, leaving behind a raw, hollowed-out vulnerability.
For a heartbeat.
Then, her focus sharpens. The fear in her gaze transforms, hardening into a glint of something primal.
“I never wanted love,” she whispers, the confession torn from her. Still, the hand holding the knife doesn’t soften. If anything, the pressure becomes more precise, more intentional.
“Love is supposed to be a weakness.” A slow smile touches her lips as her gaze drops from my eyes to my throat, a deliberate, assessing trail. “And you know what’s funny? I’ve never felt more powerful than right now.”
She punctuates the sentence by pressing the knife against the denim covering my cock. My body betrays me instantly. A sharp, involuntary twitch. My cock swells, a direct, visceral response to the threat.
“Scared?” She tilts her head.
I bring her free hand down, pressing her palm flat against me, right over my erection, forcing her to feel the undeniable, rigid proof of what she’s doing to me.
“This is how scared I am,” I whisper. “This is how hard you make me.”
Her eyes widen as the truth of it lands. The heat, the hardness, the life, all of it straining against the cold, metal threat she’s holding.
“For my entire life, this…fear, the control…it was done to me,” I tell her. “But with you…” My voice cracks. “With you, it’s a choice. I want to give you everything.”
I lean in, my forehead pressing against hers.
“You own me, Jiya. Every broken piece.” My voice drops to a ragged, possessive growl. “You could carve out my heart with that knife and I’d thank you for it. I don’t care. As long as it’s you.”
A sound escapes her throat, a raw, choked thing that’s half a sob and half a name. My name.
And then she crashes her mouth against mine.
It’s not a kiss; it’s a brand. A clash of teeth and tongue and a shared, desperate taste of possession. Her free hand comes up, fisting in my hair, pulling me deeper into the beautiful, brutal violence of it.
She pulls back, breathless, her eyes blazing with a wild, ecstatic hunger, and rips her hand away, stumbling back.
“Come on, Killer,” she says, her voice a dark, silken challenge. “Let’s see you hunt.”
Before I can respond, she pivots, darting out of the bedroom in a blur of pink hair and laughter.
I lunge after her, but my half-open pants slip down my hips, bunching around my thighs. I stumble, catching myself against the doorframe.
“Fuck.” I strip them off with a kick, leaving me in nothing but black briefs and my shirt, cock straining against the cotton. Then I’m after her, pulse drumming, hunger coiling tight in my gut.
The sound of her footsteps drags me to the kitchen. Moonlight slices through the window, painting the room in silver blades and black shadows. She’s across the island, hair wild, chest heaving, another knife in her hand. Longer, shinier, meaner.
“Are you sure you want to play this game?” My voice is low, predatory, as I stalk closer.
Without breaking eye contact, she snatches something from the counter and flings it. A lemon whistles past my temple, cracking against the wall.
“I’m very good at games.”
I lunge left, trying to circle around the island, but she matches my movement, keeping the countertop between us. Her eyes never leave mine, even as her hand darts out to grab another knife from the block.
I feint right—she’s already there, blade flashing in the dark. A sting opens across my forearm, a hot line of blood.
“First blood to me,” she taunts, darting away.
I close the distance, but she bolts, darting into the living room. She’s fast, shoving a chair into my path. It skids across the floor as I slam it aside.
“You’re making a mess of my apartment,” she calls out, her voice playful despite the knife still in her hand.
“Then stop running,” I say.
She backs up against the wall, the knife held out in front of her. Her chest rises and falls, her pulse pounding in her throat.
Heat sparks low in my gut. This. This is what I never knew I wanted. Her wild, her dangerous, her mine.
She ducks under my arm and bolts, laughing. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
She grabs a book, whips it hard into my shoulder. It smacks, but I barely register it, adrenaline and hunger dulling everything but her.
“Getting closer,” she taunts, retreating until the sofa traps her back.
I prowl around the edge, cutting off her escape. “Now what?”
Her eyes dart around the room. Then she stills. The knife lowers a fraction. And she smiles. That slow, devastating smile that guts me.
“Nowhere to run,” I say, taking another step toward her.
Her smile widens—that predatory smile I’ve come to crave—and she crosses her arms over her chest, then gathers the hem of her shirt.
“Maybe,” she says, voice sultry, teasing, “I don’t want to run anymore.”
The sight of her stops me in my tracks. Her breasts are perfect, high and full, the black lace of her bra a stark contrast against her skin. The moonlight streaming through the window catches on the curve of her cleavage, the dip of her waist.
Her fingers slide behind her back, and I hold my breath. The clasp releases with a soft snap. She rolls her shoulders, letting the straps slip down her arms. The black lace falls to the floor between us.
My mouth goes dry. Her dusky pink nipples pucker in the cool air. The moonlight paints silver highlights across her skin, turning her into a statue of some ancient goddess of vengeance and desire.
“Fuck,” I whisper. My hands twitch at my sides, desperate to touch her.
I forget how to breathe.
Her nipples tighten further under my stare, chest rising hard, defiant. The tilt of her chin dares me to touch her; the glint of the knife dares me not to.
“You like what you see?”
“Fucking gorgeous,” I get out on a breath.
Her lips twitch. The victorious glint in her eyes is the only warning. She surges forward, shoving both palms into my chest. I stumble, off-balance, too gone on the sight of her bare breasts to recover fast enough.
“Too easy!” she calls over her shoulder, darting half-naked into the dark hallway with the blade still in her hand, leaving me hard, breathless, ready to tear the walls down just to catch her.
My blood roars in my ears. Every cell in my body is on fire with need for her.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk.”
Her laugh drifts back to me from somewhere down the hallway. “I’m counting on it.”
I follow the sound, stalking through the darkness like a predator.
I find her crawling toward the bedroom doorway. The sight of her half-naked, her ass swaying as she moves on all fours, sends a jolt straight to my cock.
I seize her ankle, drag her back, and she whirls under me like a wildcat. Nails rip down my chest, fire in every rake. God, she’s magnificent.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, forcing her flat under me. She bucks and writhes, her wild heart pounding against mine.
“Say red if you want me to stop,” I growl into her ear, my voice rough, trembling from the strain of holding back. “That’s all you need to do. One word, and it’s over.”
Her chest heaves. She doesn’t say it.
She bucks, thrashing to throw me off, but the fight just spreads her wider under me. I crush my mouth to hers, bruising, claiming, swallowing the sounds she makes as my free hand tears her jeans down. Denim gives, then cotton, until she’s bared to me, slick heat brushing my fingertips.
“Fuck,” I breathe, shaking. “You’re already dripping for me.”
Her thighs clamp together, denying me. I force them apart, her muscles straining, my strength bending her open inch by inch. Every kick, every struggle only makes me harder; every growl from her lips only makes me want her more.
“You’re not getting me,” she hisses, eyes dark with fire.
“I already am,” I groan, pulling my boxers down. I shove deep into her with a savage thrust. Her cry rips free—half outrage, half surrender—but her body betrays her, clutching me tight as if she’d never let me go.
Her hips writhe, fighting, but not to escape, to take more. She squeezes me like a fist, like a hungry throat, dragging broken curses from my lips.
“Green,” she gasps, voice raw. Her nails slice my shoulders open, her eyes blazing. “Green. Harder. Fucking take me.”
“Fuck,” I growl, the sensation of being inside her short-circuiting my brain.
For the first time, the hunger isn’t dirty. The violence isn’t shame. With her, giving her the power over me, and hearing her demand…is not a violation. It’s a coronation. I’m not a monster caging his urges; I’m a king claiming his throne.
I haul her up, spin her around, and slam her onto her hands and knees before she can recover. I drive into her from behind, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, leaving marks.
Fucking mine.
“You like that?” I snarl, pounding into her. “Being fucked by the man you swore you’d kill?”
She doesn’t just take it; she shoves back, meeting every brutal thrust. “Yes,” she gasps. “Harder.”
I laugh, a raw, guttural sound of pure joy. Each thrust is a declaration.
With you, I’m not ruined. With you, I rule the fucking world.
“Is this what you wanted? When you broke into my studio? When you tried to kill me?”
“Fuck, Cal,” she pants, dropping to her elbows to change the angle. “Right fucking there.”
I aim for that spot deep inside her that makes her whole body tremble, hitting it again and again.
“Look at you,” I say, watching her writhe beneath me. “Grinding against my cock.”
The carpet burns her knees, her elbows, leaving red marks across her perfect skin. She doesn’t seem to care. I don’t care. We’re both chasing something far more primal than comfort.
“Touch yourself,” I command, maintaining my brutal pace. “I want you to come apart on my cock.”
She obeys, her hand sliding between her legs. Her own touch makes her inner walls clench around me, and I groan.
Her breathing grows ragged, her movements more frantic. She rocks between her own fingers and my thrusting cock, desperate for release.
“I want to fill you,” I say, my orgasm building. “I want to mark you as mine.”
“Do it,” she gasps, her fingers moving faster against her clit. “I want it. Want to feel you.”
Her walls clamp down around me, pulsing with her approaching climax. I drive into her harder, faster.
“That’s it,” I growl as she trembles beneath me. “Come for me. Let that killer pussy squeeze my cock.”
“Calloway!” she screams as her orgasm rips through her, her cunt milking my shaft in violent, exquisite pulses.
I ride out her climax, then pull out and flip her onto her back. Her eyes are blown wide, her body still trembling. I hook her legs over my elbows, folding her open for me, and plunge back in.
“Want to see my face when I come inside you?” I ask, watching her face contort with a pleasure so intense it looks like pain.
“Yes,” she hisses, her nails carving fresh trails down my back. “Maybe I’ll try to kill you again tomorrow,” she pants, a wicked smile on her lips. “Give you a reason to hunt me again.”
Her fingers trace the piercings where they disappear into her body. “So good. So fucking good.”
She grinds against me, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of everything I can give her.
That’s it. Her defiance, her danger, her complete surrender—it pushes me over.
“Fuck, I’m coming,” I growl, my orgasm tearing through me like wildfire as I empty myself deep inside her. She holds me tight, her hungry eyes watching every tremor rack my body.
When I pull out, my cum drips between her thighs. She belongs to me, marked from the inside out.
She slides her fingers through the mess, bringing them to her mouth and sucking them clean with an obscene pop.
“Mmm,” she hums, licking her lips. “Still think it was better with the berries though.”
I stare at her, my brain still short-circuited from the orgasm, trying to catch up.
The berries.
After everything—the knives, the chase, the confessions torn from our chests, the way we just broke and remade each other on her floor—she’s giving me a culinary review.
And a sound rips out of me.
Not a growl, not a moan. A laugh. Loud and sharp, and utterly real. A sound of pure, shocked happiness.
This magnificent, insane woman. She’s real. And she’s mine.