Chapter Three. Eshe
CHAPTER THREE
Eshe
My … threat—warning? promise?—echoes in the room. The Huntsman doesn’t make a sound, but that gaze dares me to follow through. Demands it.
Instead of unbuckling his leather belt, I carve through it, then slide the button through its hole and jerk the zipper down.
I could drag this out, taunt him … taunt myself.
But I’m only patient when I have to be. And for two years, I’ve waited for him.
Now that I have him where I’ve needed him for so long, I’m too eager, too excited, too fucking starved for this.
For him.
For the brutal strength of the Huntsman.
For the hidden layers of Malachi Bowden.
I want to peel them away until he lies exposed and vulnerable beneath me, as weak as he’s rendered me.
Payback is one fucked-up bitch.
Like an affectionate kitten, I rub my cheek against the long, thick length tenting his black boxer briefs. Which is fair. I mean, he has become my new scratching post, my favorite chew toy.
His cock flexes beneath me, a not-so-silent command to get on with it, but I don’t. My conscience’s smaller than a gnat’s asshole, and my boundary list is even tinier. But there is a list. And sexual assault and rape are on it.
“Is this what you want?” Setting the knife beside my hip so it’s not a distraction, I then stack my hands on his stomach, propping my chin on them and meeting his eyes.
“And I get talking isn’t your thing, Huntsman, but you’re going to have to give me the words.
You’re chained to my bed, and I’m going to kill you.
You don’t have a choice in that. But whether I touch you right now?
Whether I put my mouth on your dick? That’s completely your choice. So yes or no, Malachi?”
He stiffens; his whole body goes rigid, and for a second, those gray-blue eyes flare wide and blank with shock. I’m not certain if it’s because I’m offering him the chance to make his own decision or because I’ve said his real name. Maybe both.
Shadows cloud his gaze, concealing any emotion as if it never existed, and I’m staring into the crystallized, soulless eyes of an assassin again.
I tilt my head, frowning.
Huh. Maybe not so soulless.
Absently, I inch my bottom hand free and crawl my fingers up his still-bared torso until I reach his pierced nipple. Without breaking our visual showdown, I tug on the barbell and then press a fingertip against the cut above it, studying his savagely beautiful face for a reaction.
A struggle wars across his expression. But lust wins out. It’s in the firming of that generous but cruel mouth. In the flash of heat in his eyes. In the tautening of skin over his cheekbones. In the reflexive grinding of his jaw.
No. Someone devoid of a soul wouldn’t be capable of this much passion. Whether it be hatred or lust. Or a gorgeous, toxic mixture of both.
“Yes or no, Malachi?” I push, once more deliberately using his name.
“Do it,” he grits out from between clenched teeth.
Short, to the point. But I need more.
“Do what?” I press, goading him. Needing him to fully give me the permission I crave.
“Use that pretty, filthy mouth for something else other than talking my goddamn ear off and suck my dick.”
In seconds, I scoot farther down his body, hooking fingers into the top of his boxer briefs and tugging down.
“Goddamn,” I breathe.
I’ve rubbed my pussy all over him, so I surmised how big he was, but …
“I’m going to damn near dislocate my jaw taking this dick.” I close my eyes, brushing my lips back and forth along the wide base of his length, the coarse nest of dark blond hair tickling my chin. “And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”
Rising on my knees, I fist that beautiful, intimidating dick with its broad, plum-shaped head and veiny, heavy shaft, and pump it with both hands piled one on top of the other.
By no means is this my first dick, but my fascination with him belies that fact.
I inhale his heady musk, and that leather, minty, storm-filled scent is thicker here, more intoxicating.
Lowering my head, I nuzzle the hair-roughened balls that hang low beneath his sex, darting my tongue out and dragging it over each one.
Another of those rough, menacing sounds rumbles out of him as his powerful thighs tense on either side of me and his belly goes concave. With a sample of his unique flavor slamming into my taste buds, I swallow him down.
Goddamn.
He’s a fucking experience.
On a greedy moan, I draw back, releasing him with an indulgent pop.
Losing myself in him, in the pleasure of him, I lick him like a lollipop, tracing the highway of veins interconnecting over his skin.
His body bucks, rocking the bed as his hips jack toward the ceiling in an unspoken but deafening demand to stop teasing him. To put his dick back inside me.
Look at him trying to top from the bottom. As if those chains and cuffs aren’t enough clues that I’m in control.
Wrapping my hands around his dick again, I stroke, tightening my hold, instinctively knowing he wants a hard, damn-near-punishing grip. And as he releases a harsh hiss from between flattened lips, his hips rocking into my touch, I see I’m right.
It’s almost … freeing.
I can be as nasty, as ugly, as cruel as I want—as I need to be with him.
Not only will Malachi not condemn me for it, he welcomes it. He craves it as much as I do.
Besides … dead men can’t judge.
“Tell me to stop, Huntsman,” I murmur. “If this is all you want, we can quit now. What do you need from me?”
He raises his head, and a snarl lifts the corner of his mouth. “If you stop, I’ll find a way out of these chains and choke you with them. Put your mouth back on me.”
“Alrighty, then.”
I smirk, then gather spit in my mouth and release it onto the tip of his dick, watching it slide down over the flared rim.
Catching the drops with my fingers, I use them as natural lubricant, pumping him faster, firmer.
On the next downstroke, I part my lips over him, taking his brutish flesh inside, hollowing my cheeks and sucking him deeper.
Bobbing my head over him, I work to take more and more of this beautiful cock.
Even with my considerable talents, I can’t deep throat all of him, but fuck that, I can enjoy conquering as much as possible.
A deep grunt and full-body shudder are my rewards. I moan, slowly easing back, stroking my tongue along the underside of his flesh. More of that, please.
With one hand still working his dick, I dip my head, returning to his balls, and suck one inside my mouth, rolling my tongue over it.
That musky flavor explodes over my senses, and I not only savor it, I breathe it.
Switching to the other testicle, I hum in anticipation and swallow him, teasing, savoring.
There’s no part of him I want to leave untouched. I need to claim him everywhere.
A faint tremor shakes his thighs, and I place a gentle kiss high on the inside before sliding back down his length like a firefighter on a pole headed out on a call.
The bulbous head bumps my throat, but instead of retreating, I hold still, allowing him to slip inside.
A primitive growl echoes from above me, like the warning timbre of a predator.
The hairs on the back of my perspiration-dampened neck and arms stand up at the sound. Not out of alarm or fear. Never that.
Out of excitement.
Anticipation.
It’s almost enough to make me free him of the shackles to find out exactly how he would follow through on that rumbling, menacing threat.
Almost.
Craving that sound again, I relax my throat more, push air through my nose, and he slips deeper.
Moisture stings my eyes, and I don’t care. I’m not moving. Because there went that rumble again. My reward.
I set a punishing pace, going hard, pushing him farther and farther into the channel of my throat with each thrust over my tongue. His big body shakes beneath me, his hips jerking, straining toward me. Demanding I let him fuck my mouth. But this is my show. My punishment. My torture.
Giving him a growl of my own, I pull him back inside me, hunger leading the way and throwing skill out of the window.
I release him, fumbling, searching for the knife on the mattress.
As my fingers close around it, I press him into my throat, farther than he’s been so far, gagging myself.
Tears burn my eyes, and my nose stings, runs, but I don’t back down.
I cut a careful, shallow slice just below my lips.
A thunderous roar echoes in the room. His back tightly arches off the bed as violent tremors ripple through his body.
I cut him again, at the base of his dick.
Cum strikes the back of my throat, hot and thick and as salty as his blood.
I pull back only slightly, to drag in a breath, but don’t miss a drop of his seed.
Fuck, he’s delicious. And still hard as I drink him down, then lap at the sluggishly seeping slit at the crown of his dick.
I continue to pump his flesh, and when I finally release him, crimson smears my palm.
Meeting his gaze over his rapidly rising and falling chest, I lick my skin free of his blood.
“You’re welcome, Huntsman. I usually don’t dole out happy endings to my would-be assassins. But I’m glad I made an exception in your case.”
Bending over, I smack a kiss on the tip of his dick … then dash up his torso, snatching my Glock from under the pillow. In the next second, both my hands are wrapped around the grip and the muzzle hovers centimeters above his forehead.
Lust disappears from his blue gaze, and it freezes over, biting my skin. That gaze. It doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead for mercy.
Good. I have zero to offer him.
I pull the trigger.