Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
BELLATRIX
There were two things I learned about my target over the last few minutes. One: he was able to find his way to an empty bedroom a lot quicker than he was able to find the clit. And two: his dick tasted like ass.
Okay, I was lying about that last bit. It tasted like soap and shaving cream from all that unnecessary manscaping. But I was feeling petty, and a petty bitch was dangerous when she was so close to your favorite parts.
I took a deep breath and a deeper gulp of cock as I swallowed him down to the base, the front sight of the revolver pressing into my temple with the full weight of his arm. He could shoot me, but he’d risk shooting his dick off too. Or, at the very least, me taking it with me in a death clench.
Something told me he wasn’t about to risk either. So really, this was the safest place for both of us.
I pulled back, twirling my tongue around the ring at the top a few times.
Repeating the rhythm—bob, twirl, flick—until I felt the barrel dip to the side.
Then I clamped down on the cock ring with my teeth and yanked back, the little flap of foreskin it was attached to coming with me in one quick tug.
Blood dribbled down my chin and onto the floor as I rolled to the side and reached for the gun. The fact he wasn’t screaming was good. Meant no one was rushing up the stairs to see what was going on. It was also bizarre.
Not nearly as bizarre as the grin he gave me when my palm wrapped around the top of the barrel and twisted.
The movement should have been enough to force his wrist into an odd angle that had his grip loosening.
Instead, he continued to watch my face, his dick leaking down his leg and his arm cranking and popping before the bone dislocated, causing muscle failure.
The gun dropped to the floor. I went to jump for it, and he slammed me down onto the bed. His knee leaning into the pressure point in my left thigh, and gravity locking both of my wrists above my head with the help of his dislocated arm while the other directed his cock between my legs.
A quick thrust of his hips, and the sick bastard was fucking me into the mattress.
His blood painting my skin red as he pulled out and dragged his severed tip along my thighs.
I met him pound for pound. Drive for drive.
I enjoyed the rush, the flood of endorphins, the burn.
I’d grown to crave the danger. At first, it was the only thing that helped me stay awake. Now I was addicted to it. Not him.
Fucker was just a vessel, a way to clear the brain fog.
And by the time we were both headed towards the peak of climax, I was shoving him onto his back.
Grinding his cock against my insides and reaching for the extra shot of insulin I kept tucked into my sleeve in case my pump gave out.
Sliding the syringe into my hand and jabbing it into his thigh when I leaned back to get a deeper angle.
He knocked the insulin out of my grip before I could give him the full dose. “You can’t kill me, myshka.” He grinned. “Nine lives.”
“Watch me,” I grunted, swiping up the pillow beside us. Fifteen more minutes of me holding it over his head while the drugs took effect and the fucker passed out.
I am not ashamed to admit I continued to ride him through it. Hitting that point of no return at the exact moment he stopped struggling.