"Shh," I whispered, silencing her with a look. "This could have been so much easier for you, little fox.”
The knife, now an instrument of both threat and seduction, glinted in the light of the lamp on the nightstand as I held it by the blade. The handle, a piece of art in itself, was cold and unyielding—the mother-of-pearl inlay holding an icy temperature. I could feel the tension radiating from her, her breath hitched. A sound that would be a prelude to a masterpiece to my ears, a testament to the effect I had on her.
If only she wasn’t so f*****g unwilling.
“R-Ryker, stop,” her words held the faintest hint of desperation. I could feel the way her chest didn’t expand fully with each breath. Caught in the restraints of fear.
"Mmm, little fox," I purred, my voice a low murmur that promi
