He imagined dousing her with gasoline and setting her on fire, then watching her writhe in pain and listening with pleasure to her screams. Just the thought made him want to take her again, but instead he took a photograph with his cell phone. Then she groaned. Only it was not the sound of a victim but of a woman whose appetite for kinky sex was satiated for the moment. He found it amusing that she was driven by the excitement of knowing that he was dangerous—that the role of master and slave could change from erotic role-playing to fatal reality. The woman looked up at him and saw the renewed lust in his eyes. But she shook her head. “No time. Untie me,” she commanded. “I have to get back to the office.” His violent fantasy faded and he did as he was told. Quickly untying the knots, he handed her the lacy black lingerie and conservative gray business suit she’d worn to their assignation at the Seahorse Motel, a run-down, by-the-hour flophouse outside of Atlantic City, New Jersey.
