Pretty cried when he cut the curve of her jaw with one hand and slid fingers into her with the other; the sheer terror of having the blade to her face competing with the lewd openness he was requiring from the rest of her – left her gasping and rigid, shocked and dreadful. Words could hardly describe the utter vulnerability of it – that he asked for positively everything, and she gave him positively everything – and in that moment their souls were joined in a way she'd never experienced before. He was in her and on her, surrounding her, hurting her, loving her. He licked blood and tears from her face, and looked so fragile, so hopeful while he did it that she couldn't look away from him and didn't try to, just stared right into his eyes until his thumb brushed across her clit, and the spark-shock of it made the world go away. If he'd killed her right then she'd have had no complaint. If he'd asked her permission to snuff out her life, she'd have given it. She'd have kissed his lips goodbye.
