Licking Knife Quotes

I rub the ears of my dog, my stupid goddam ruddy great dog that I never wanted but who hung around anyway and who followed me thru the swamp and who bit Aaron when he was trying to choke me and who found Viola when she was lost and who's licking my hand with his little pink tongue and whose eye is still mostly squinted shut from where Mr. Prentiss Jr. kicked him and whose tail is way way shorter from where Matthew Lyle cut it off when my dog - my dog - went after a man with a machete to save me and who's right there when I need pulling back from the darkness I fall into and who tells me who I am whenever I forget.

You need to be clever to best him. Are you clever, Rachel?” Oh God. She wants to know if I’m clever. I glanced at Al, and he stared at me, then shrugged. Licking my lips, I said, “It’s the shiny pot that puts a hole in the sky.” Al’s mouth dropped open, but Newt thought about it, her expression thoughtful and her fingers finally leaving her knife. “Very true,” she said as she eased back into the cushions. With a soft click of his teeth, Al’s mouth shut. His eyes were cross, and he seemed peeved that I’d found a way to satisfy her without compromising myself at all.

Eve held his eyes and confidently licked the length of the razor-sharp blade with the tip of her tongue. Red blood beaded up on her tongue, and she licked her lips, giving them a fresh coat of color. Eve used the knife to blow a kiss in Beckett’s direction and disappeared into the crowd. Beckett forgot to keep dancing. He stood stock still with Kyle still twirling around him. Eve had just f*cked his mind so hard, he wanted to smoke a cigarette and cuddle like some soap-watching woman.

So Stapes conducted a dinner for just the two of us, then informed me of a dozen small but important mistakes I had made. Setting down a dirty utensil was considered crude, for example. That meant it was perfectly acceptable to lick one's knife clean. In fact, if you didn't want to dirty your napkin it was the only seemly thing to do.

I will eat what I want and look as I please and laugh as loud as I like and use the wrong fork and lick my knife.

I felt euphorically twisted. I turned him over, so he lay on his stomach, and I drank his blood, licking and sucking where the knife protruded out of his neck. I closed my eyes, trying to get inside his mind through his blood as he died and his spirit transcended not to heaven, but to hell.

Billy's Adam's apple bobbed. "Don't-" The knife at his throat cut him short. Black Tom cocked a thick brow. "Don't, wha? Hurt your littl' toffer?" Rotted teeth flashed. "She mean that much ta ye, then?" Bill licked his lips quickly. His skin took on a grayish hue as sweat seeded over his high brow. "Don't piss 'er off," he managed.

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's. And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair - Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there! And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair - But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: 'It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away. You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums. Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer: At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Under no circumstances are you to butter your entire roll and, my God!” she cried suddenly, switching Lan’s hand three times in rapid succession. “Never lick your knife!” “Ouch! Fine! Buggering fuck! Leave off with that beshitted thing!” The dead woman let out a sound like the chirping of a bird, staring at her with an indignation that was nearly horror. “Ladies,” she sputtered at last. “Ladies do not say bugger or fuck!” “But beshitted’s all right?” Lan asked cautiously. “No, it is not!” “You know, I may not be as mannered-up as you are, but in Norwood, it’s rude to yell at the table.

No weekends for the gods now. Wars flicker, earth licks its open sores, fresh breakage, fresh promotions, chance assassinations, no advance. Only man thinning out his own kind sounds through the Sabbath noon, the blind swipe of the pruner and his knife busy about the tree of life... Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heels of small war - until the end of time to police th eearth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime.

Are the computers going to fail?” one of the artists asked him, licking ketchup off her thumb. She asked it like she was hoping he’d say yes. Lincoln couldn't remember her name, but she had all-over-the-place hair and big brown eyes. He didn't like thinking about her with an X-Acto knife.

I love this book. When other U.S. reporters were licking Ken Lay's loafers, Leopold went for Enron's thieving throat. Leopold is a journalist who insists on real investigative reporting–inside documents, inside sources, hard knife-in-the-gut evidence–detective-style reporting that is just about illegal in the U.S.A. Bravo and my personal Pulitzer to Jason Leopold. Every journalist in America should read this, then quit or riot.

I stare at his forearms. I can make out a naked woman with a snake going up her vagina. She’s holding a knife, slitting her own throat. There are three playing cards on the back of his right hand: the Queen of Spades, the Jack of Hearts and the Joker. Red flames lick his elbow. There’s a watch tattooed on his left wrist with ‘Fuck Time’ inscribed on its face. Fuck o’clock. He’s not that tall, but his body is carefully cut. The lines of his face, his cheekbones and jaw, are sharp and precise. I can see the tufts of his blond underarm hairs and under them the ladder of his ribs. He’s beautiful, in the way that a knife is beautiful.

Don't be polite. Bite in. Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon. For there is no core or stem or rind or pit or seed or skin to throw away.

Willem puts down his fork and knife. 'This is falling in love.' With his finger, he swipes a bit of the Nutella from inside his crepe and puts a dollop on the inside of my wrist. It is hot and oozy and starts to melt against my sticky skin, but before it has a chance to slither away, Willem licks his thumb and wipes the smear of Nutella off and pops it into his mouth. It all happens fast, like a lizard zapping a fly. 'This is being in love.' And he takes my other wrist, the one with my watch on it, and moves the watchband around until he sees what he's looking for. Once again, he licks his thumb. Only this time, he rubs it against my birthmark, hard, as if trying to scrub it off. 'Being in love is a birthmark?' I joke as I retract my arm. But my voice has a tremble in it, and the place where his wet thumbprint is drying against my skin burns somehow. 'It's something that never comes off, no matter how much you might want it to.' 'You're comparing love to a...stain?' He leans so far back in his seat that the front legs of his chair scrape off the floor. He looks very satisfied, with the crepe or with himself, I'm not sure. 'Exactly.

My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn’t dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.

Every dish I cooked exhumed a memory. Every scent and taste brought me back for a moment to an unravaged home. Knife-cut noodles in chicken broth took me back to lunch at Myeondong Gyoja after an afternoon of shopping, the line so long it filled a flight of stairs, extended out the door, and wrapped around the building. The kalguksu so dense from the rich beef stock and starchy noodles it was nearly gelatinous. My mother ordering more and more refills of their famously garlic-heavy kimchi. My aunt scolding her for blowing her nose in public. Crispy Korean fried chicken conjured bachelor nights with Eunmi. Licking oil from our fingers as we chewed on the crispy skin, cleansing our palates with draft beer and white radish cubes as she helped me with my Korean homework. Black-bean noodles summoned Halmoni slurping jjajangmyeon takeout, huddled around a low table in the living room with the rest of my Korean family. I drained an entire bottle of oil into my Dutch oven and deep-fried pork cutlets dredged in flour, egg, and panko for tonkatsu, a Japanese dish my mother used to pack in my lunch boxes. I spent hours squeezing the water from boiled bean sprouts and tofu and spooning filling into soft, thin dumpling skins, pinching the tops closed, each one slightly closer to one of Maangchi's perfectly uniform mandu.

His mouth closed, his tongue moved, and Lexi’s mind disintegrated in pleasure. Jax didn’t just use a flick of his tongue or a little suckle of his lips. Jax ate her. He used his entire mouth in a fervent attack, taking her in, licking and stroking every inch of her until she thought she’d come apart, only to stop just before she exploded and slowly suck her out of his mouth. He stroked her with his hand, separated her with his fingers, then dove back in with his full, open mouth, repeating the exquisite torture until she was writhing against the wall, panting his name. “You wanted me to savor you…inside…little Lexi.” He released her hips. “Let everything go and ride my mouth.” When he put his mouth back to her this time, he thrust his tongue up inside her. “Oh fuck.” She grabbed the corner of the wall with one hand, his head with the other, and let his hands guide her hips to his mouth. He pulled her hips forward each time he drove his tongue inside, then held her against his mouth while he stroked and sucked. “Jax.” It was too much. Too damn much. It was crazy, amazing, blistering pleasure. “Jax. Jax.” He thrust into her, hummed, and rubbed his face against her pussy. The friction sent her skyward, and she splintered. Pleasure knifed through every part of her body, filling, overflowing, then bursting.

I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whisky. The barman looked at the blood and asked: ‘God?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’ He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly: ‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’ ‘So you snuffed him?’ ‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’ I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety: There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’ ‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’ ‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’ ‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’ ‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered. I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first: ‘So God’s dead?’ ‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’ The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily: ‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’ I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled: ‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own. In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood.

About me as a drinker: I wasn't much of one and had a short, bad history of doing it. The few times I'd tried drinking I either became too much like myself or not enough, but either way it was always calamity on top of calamity and I found myself saying way too much about too little and doing the wrong things in the wrong places. Once, at my boss's Christmas party, I passed out for a minute - passed out but still, like a zombie, remained fully ambulatory and mostly functional - and when I came to, I found myself in my boss's kitchen, the refrigerator door open and me next to it at the counter, spreading mayonnaise onto two slices of wheat bread and licking the knife after each pass before I stuck it back in the jar. I heard someone cough or gag, looked up, and saw the kitchen's population staring at me, all of their mouths open and slack, obviously wondering what I thought I was doing, exactly, and all I could think to say was, "Sandwich." Which is what I said. And then, to prove my point, whatever the point was, I ate it. The sandwich, that is.

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All at once a grizzly bear rose in her path and attacked the pony. She jumped off and her pony escaped, but the bear attacked her, so she fought him the best she could with her knife. Her little dog, by snapping at the bear’s heels and detracting his attention from the woman, enabled her for some time to keep pretty well out of his reach. Finally the grizzly struck her over the head, tearing off almost her whole scalp. She fell, but did not lose consciousness, and while prostrate struck him four good licks with her knife, and he retreated. After he had gone she replaced her torn scalp and bound it up as best she could,

Maybe she was a little naive about sex. But she truly hadn’t thought about it for ages before Adam, and even then, it was never quite in these terms—him above her, pushing her legs wide open with his palms on her inner thighs and then kneeling between them. Sliding down, low. “What are you—” The way he parted her with his tongue, it was as though she was butter and he meant to slice through her like a hot knife. He was slow but sure, and didn’t pause when Olive’s thigh stiffened against his palm, or when she tried to squirm away. He just grunted, rich and low; then ran his nose in the skin at the juncture of her abdomen, inhaling deeply; and then he licked her once more.

She knelt in the mud and tried to pull the cord from his neck, but it had been tied terribly tight and her hands were trembling. She felt the duke crouch behind her, his arms reaching around her, warm and hard, and felt a moment's confusion before he leaned forward and murmured in her ear, "Here." He placed her opened chatelaine knife in her hands. She took it gratefully. "Thank you." Carefully she cut the cord and picked up the little dog, his body warm and rather smelly in her arms. The terrier immediately began licking her chin. Bridget inhaled on a sob, even as she felt the brush of the duke's tongue at the corner of her eye. "Your tears taste like salvation." His voice was deep, resonating against her back, and he almost sounded puzzled.

Clair put down her knife and pickle, then wiped her hands. As she came toward Clay she pulled a large bobby pin from the back of her hair, and her long, thick locks cascaded down her back. She took Clay’s right hand and kissed each of his fingertips, licked his thumb, then took his index finger in her mouth and made a show of removing it slowly and with maximum moisture. Clay looked at the floor, shaking. “Baby,” she said as she placed the bobby pin firmly between Clay’s wet thumb and index finger, “I need you to go over to that wall and take this bobby pin and insert it ever so firmly into that electrical outlet over there.” Clay looked up at her at last. “Because,” she continued, “I know that you aren’t mad at me and that you’re just grieving for your friends, but I think you need to be reminded that you aren’t invulnerable and that you can hurt even more than you do now.

He did nothing in return. She couldn’t force him to act. She began to pull away, but one of his hands spanned the back of her neck, keeping her in place. Then his lips moved over hers, at first tentative with the lightest touch as if he expected hell and damnation to rain down. Then he pressed in for a real kiss, pulling her tight to him until every possible part of his hard body made contact with hers. Wow. Oh wow. She forgot about all external pain. Electricity shot through her. This was a kiss. He moved his hands to either side of her face. Her heart swelled from how much the move made her feel cherished. This wasn’t the move of a spy-assassin-killer about to ram a knife in her gut. His mouth returned to hers and moved down her neck to her shoulder to lick over one of her wounds. “Your beautiful skin this damaged makes me furious. If that asshole wasn’t dead, I’d rip him to shreds.

The first thrust is like a sharp slice of a knife. My lungs squeeze the oxygen inside them. The discomfort subsides with the long, luxurious kisses that Penn rains on my mouth. On my cheeks, neck, and breasts. He stops every now and again, not wanting to come, to suck one of my nipples into his mouth and lick around it. He caresses my face and swipes stray locks of hair from my forehead. He is moving inside me as though he’s done it a thousand times before, but he is also careful and gentle. The leaves beneath me crunch with every thrust as he pushes into me, and they tickle my back. He growls, and it stirs something inside me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, squeezing hard, wanting more of him against me, inside me, with me. I wish I could lock us in a bubble and never let go. I wish we didn’t have to go back. That I didn’t have to hate him, and that it wasn’t so wrong to want this. His thrusts become quicker and jerkier, and my eyes widen at that. I’m guessing he is going to come. I’ve never seen a guy come. Another first. The space between my thighs is sore, but the pain is lusciously sinful. I’m full of him and desire and want.

It's rich. And smooth. And thick. And fatty, but in a good way. Like butter, but with a deeper, fuller, nuttier flavor." Max's inky black pupils start to dilate as he gazes down at me, his mouth cracked open, like he's hypnotized and intrigued at once. I cease breathing. He clears his throat. "Damn..." I nod quickly. "On hot, crusty bread, it is divine. You need to try it." He nods right back, like he's in a trance. I'm in a trance too. I can't seem to stop looking at him as I wax poetic about one of my favorite food combinations. "How is it served?" he asks, his voice between a groan and a growl. "The marrow, I mean." I watch, mesmerized at the slow movement along his stubbled throat. I swear I can feel my skin tingling as my internal temperature rises. Who knew talking about bone marrow could get me this worked up? "Sometimes they cut the bone lengthwise and you can just scrape your knife along the hollow part of the bone and out comes the marrow," I say. "And sometimes they cut it into chunks and the marrow's in the middle, so you scrape out as much as you can, but there's almost always some left, so the best way to get it out is to just put the bone in your mouth and suck it out, really get your tongue in the hole and lick and...

I ran. It was fantastic how far I ran without stopping to rest. I can't even remember what places I passed. I must have left by the back gate next to the Kyohoku Tower in the north of the temple precincts, then I must have passed by the Myoo Hall, run up the mountain path that was bordered by bamboo grass and azalea, and reached the top of Mount Hidari Daimonji. Yes, it was surely on top of Mount Hidari Daimonji that I lay down on my hack in the bamboo field in the shadow of the red pines and tried to still the fierce beating of my heart. This was the mountain that protected the Golden Temple from the north. The cry of some startled birds brought me to my senses. Or else it was a bird that flew close to my face with a great fluttering of its wings. As I lay there on my back I gazed at the night sky. The birds soared over the branches of the redpines in great numbers and the thin flakes from the fire, which were already becoming scarce, floated in the sky above my head. I sat up and looked far down the ravine towards the Golden temple. A strange sound echoed from there. It was like the sound of crackers. It was like the sound of countless people's soul joints all cracking at once. From where I sat the Golden Temple itself was invisible. All that I could see was the eddying smoke and the great fire that rose into the sky. The flakes from the fire drifted between the trees and the Golden Temple's sky seemed to be strewn with golden sand. I crossed my legs and sat gazing for a long time at the scene. When I came to myself, I found that my body was covered in blisters and scars and that I was bleeding profusely. My fingers also were stained with blood, evidently from when I had hurt them by knocking against the temple door. I licked my wounds like an animal that has fled from its pursuers. I looked in my pocket and extracted the bottle of arsenic, wrapped in my handkerchief, and the knife. I threw them down the ravine. Then I noticed the pack of cigarettes in my other pocket. I took one out and started smoking. I felt like a man who settles down for a smoke after finishing a job of work. I wanted to live.

The first thing I see when I get home from the hospital after midnight is the glint of the stainless steel oven in the semidarkness of the kitchen. The air smells sweet and eggy. I walk to the oven and pull open the door. Six white ramekins hold six perfect-looking crème caramels, and I wonder if they're safe to eat. It's been more than three hours since I turned off the oven. I remember a Swedish chef telling me years ago when I worked as a prep cook that unrefrigerated food will keep for four hours, but he also cleaned his fingernails with the tip of his chef's knife, so who knows. I pick up one of the dishes and sniff it. It smells fine. Without taking off my coat, I dig into a drawer for a spoon and eat the crème caramel in five seconds flat. The texture is silky and it tastes sweet and custardy, if not perfect. I pull the rest of the dishes from the oven to put in the fridge, telling myself one was enough. An extra treat at the end of a hard day. I've put three ramekins into the refrigerator when I can't stand it and dig into the second, eating more slowly this time, slipping out of my coat, savoring the custard on my tongue. Two is definitely enough, I'm thinking as I lick the inside of the cup, two is perfect. I'm picking up the remaining cup to put in the fridge but I turn instead, head for the bedroom with ramekin in hand. At least wait until you've gotten undressed and in bed, I told myself, surely you can wait. I make it as far as the doorway and I'm digging my spoon into a third caramel. Don't beat yourself up, I think when I'm done, it's just fake eggs and skim milk, a little sugar. It's for Cooking for Life, for God's sake, it can't be bad for you, but I feel bad somehow as I finish off the third ramekin. Okay, I'm satisfied now, I tell myself, and I can go to sleep. I get undressed , pull on my T-shirt and flannel boxers, head for the bathroom to brush my teeth, but suddenly I'm taking a detour to the kitchen, opening the fridge, staring at the three remaining custards. If I eat just one more, there'll be two left and I can take them to share with Benny tomorrow. That won't be so bad. I pick up the fourth ramekin, close the fridge, and eat as slowly as I can to truly appreciate the flavor. Restaurant desserts are easily as big as four of these little things.

Watched you eat a peach at sixteen,” he muttered, shucking the chain over his head and dropping it along with the knife to the ground so he could undo his fly and bring his long, curved cock into the snow-bright night. “Cut it with a sharp blade into segments and licked the juice off the steel.” He looked up into my eyes after he slotted the thick, hot head of his cock at my grasping entrance to growl, “I wanted to be the knife.

For Dex, I got a tattoo to cover Jay’s name carved on my back that matched the one he has on his arm, an angel licking a knife that he got years ago. I didn’t find out until recently that he got that for me.

The Revenant I am the dog you put to sleep, as you like to call the needle of oblivion, come back to tell you this simple thing; I never liked you-not one bit. When I licked your face, I thought of biting off your nose. When I watched you toweling yourself dry, I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap. I resented the way you moved, your lack of animal grace, the way you would sit in a chair to eat, a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand. I would have run away, but I was too weak, a trick you taught me while I was learning to sit and heel, and-greatest of insults-shake hands without a hand. I admit the sight of the leash would excite me but only because it meant I was about to smell things you had never touched. You do no want to believe this, but I have no reason to lie. I hated the car, the rubber toys, disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives. The jingling of my tags drove me mad. You always scratched me in the wrong place. All I ever wanted from you was food and fresh water in my metal bowls. While you slept, I watched you breathe as the moon rose in the sky. It took all of my strength not to raise my head and howl. Now I am free of the collar, the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater; the absurdity of your lawn, and that is all you need to know about this place except what you already supposed and are glad it did not happen sooner- that everyone here can read and write, the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.

We ate slowly, looking at each other the whole while, silent, anticipating, savoring the sensations building, mounting inside. Utterly enthralled I watched him eat chicken, his strong white teeth tearing the flesh apart, and it was thrilling, tantalizing. I observed the way his neck muscles worked when he swallowed his wine, and that was thrilling, too and I watched with fascination as his large brown hand reached out, fingers wrapping around a fuzzy golden-pink peach, clutching it. He took up a knife and carefully peeled the peach and divided it into sections and ate them one by one, his brown eyes devouring me as he did so. The tip of his tongue slipped out and slowly licked the peach juice from his lips…

You don't give an inch, do you?' My eyes licked coldly up his body. 'Do you? Or is an inch all you have to offer?' Petty. Stupid. I didn't even know why I said it, except that when he let out a low laugh, I found it oddly satisfying. 'Sleep well,' he said. 'I hope that knife under your pillow doesn't give you a crick in your neck.

Aero,” she whispers, almost in reckoning, coming to life at this very moment. I stare back at her intently, watching in awe and admiration as my angel falls for me. “Briony,” I whisper. Pulling out of her, I crouch down between her thighs, kneeling to my queen. I lick the freshly cut wound, healing my harm with my tongue. Her thigh quivers at the sensation, the warmth of her blood smearing across my lips and down my chin before I stand before her again. Without warning, she reaches out, gripping my neck, and pulls me forward, the knife dropping to the floor beneath us. In a hurried and reckless rush, she kisses me, licking her blood with wicked strokes as I slide my cock back inside her, speaking to my soul entirely with our tangled tongues as we begin fucking and bleeding together. There’s a knock on the door around the corner that pulls her attention from me. He’s here. But it doesn’t

Knew you'd come around," he mumbles into my mouth as I work my hand into his pants and grip his shaft until it's straining to be freed. Putting enough space between us for Riley to see me lick my lips seductively, he allows me to guide him towards the four-poster bed in the centre of the room. Before he sits, I wiggle his trousers down until I'm crouching before his dick. It's a pretty nice dick actually, girthy with a network of ribbed veins running along the length of it. Oh well. Whipping the specialised hunting pocket knife out of my boot, I grab the end of Riley's dick firmly and make a clean slice all the way through the base before his eyes are able to focus. The scream that leaves him is so high-pitched, it could have been mine and I panic at the noise. Someone is surely going to hear him so I shoot up, fumbling with his severed dick before stuffing it into his mouth. He sputters and gags on himself, which gives me a strange sense of satisfaction, until he passes out and flops onto the bed. Well, that stopped the noise issue but now I'm looking at a gaping, bleeding hole where Riley's dick should be and a body I can't just leave here.

The bathtub is on fire. Flames sit atop bloody water, licking upwards and scorching the ceiling. The fire keeps burning, regardless of cause or fuel. A large silver knife, stolen from her mother’s kitchen, sits on the floor beside the tub. Blood coats the blade and handle, pooling on the tile and running into the grout. The last she remembers, she had been slitting her wrists. She was tired of the dreams of fire and blood. Tired of feeling like she didn’t belong. She’d run the water and sat in the tub. She’d drawn the blade across her skin, feeling the odd invasive pain as it cut. She’d welcomed it.

That’s sickening,” hissed the woman. “You should be branded and your dicks torn o—” There was a squeak, and Tom lifted his eyes, startled. He saw that Baltsaros had wrapped his hand around the woman’s neck, her face contorted with shock and fear as she began to struggle. Tom pulled quickly out of the way. Sitting on his heels, his cock in hand, Tom watched with morbid curiosity as Baltsaros simply suffocated the woman to the point of unconsciousness and lay her back on the bed as if this were a common occurrence. The captain then rose up on his knees and slid the long hunting knife from its sheath by the bed. With the point of the blade hovering over the woman’s heart, Baltsaros murmured something under his breath. The blade sank so easily into her chest. Tom blinked slowly. It was perplexing and slightly worrying; though the captain was certainly ruthless and had a deeply sadistic side to him, Tom hadn’t seen him do something so… inhuman before. In a daze, he watched the captain pull the knife out to place his hand on the heart’s blood that rose out of the wound in a thick, dark puddle; Baltsaros licked his dripping red fingers and smiled at him. Somewhere in the back of Tom’s mind was the thought that he should be more concerned about the captain’s actions, but there was something so primal, fierce, and alive in the man’s eyes that Tom felt nothing but awe. Maybe the char had something to do with it, but before his eyes, the captain had become a gorgeous, bloody, fallen god. Tom trembled. Baltsaros spat into the palm of his hand, and he stroked the rigid, thick cock jutting from the opening in his pants, the smile fading from his face as he stared at Tom with eyes dark with lust.

Run and find me. “Tom is worried that I am going to kill you,” said Baltsaros slowly. He wanted to laugh, the words were so absurd. However, Jon’s mouth went dry as he stared back at the creature of ice who looked at him through Baltsaros’s eyes. He licked his lips. “Why… would he think that?” whispered Jon. Something chuckled inside him. Foolish boy, it crooned. The scar on his back twinged as Jon hunched his shoulders. He remembered dreams of blood, of terror, of a black night, of Tom’s strong arms, and the captain bleeding on the rug. Dreams? He realized that Baltsaros watched him closely, and he shivered as the captain smiled, his brown eyes once more warm and amused. “Because I came very close once already,” said Baltsaros, and he speared a thick chunk of fish from Jon’s bowl on the end of his knife. Jon stared at the fish and felt the bench beneath him sway as if he were at sea.

J-Just m-my throat,’ I stuttered, my lips quivering from the cold. ‘Let's get you out of here, then,’ Marcel said. He slid his arms under me and lifted me without effort-like picking up an empty box. His chest was bare and warm; he hunched his shoulders to keep the rain off me. My head lolled over his arm. I stared vacantly back toward the furious water, beating the sand behind him. ‘You got her?’ I heard Sam ask. ‘Yeah, I'll take it from here. Get back to the hospital. I'll join you later. Thanks, Sam.’ My head was still rolling. None of his words sunk in at first. Sam didn't answer. There was no sound, and I wondered if he were already gone. The water licked and writhed up the sand after us as Marcel carried me away like it was angry that I'd escaped. As I stared wearily, a spark of color caught my unfocused eyes-a a small flash of fire was dancing on the black water, far out in the bay. The image made no sense, and I wondered how conscious I was. My head swirled with the memory of the black, churning water of being so lost that I couldn't find up or down. So, lost… but somehow Marcel… ‘How did you find me?’ I rasped. ‘I was searching for you,’ he told me. He was half-jogging through the rain, up the beach toward the road. ‘I followed the tire tracks to your truck, and then I heard you scream…’ He shuddered. ‘Why would you jump, Bell? Didn't you notice that it's turning into a hurricane out here? Couldn't you have waited for me?’ Anger filled his tone as the relief faded. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘It was stupid.’ ‘Yeah, it was really stupid,’ he agreed, drops of rain shaking free of his hair as he nodded. ‘Look, do you mind saving the stupid stuff for when I'm around? I won't be able to concentrate if I think you're jumping off cliffs behind my back.’ ‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘No problem.’ I sounded like a chain-smoker. I tried to clear my throat and then winced; the throat-clearing felt like stabbing a knife down there. ‘What happened today? Did you… find her?’ It was my turn to shudder, though I wasn't so cold here, right next to his ridiculous body heat. Marcel shook his head. He was still more running than walking as he headed up the road to his house. ‘No. She took off into the water-the bloodsuckers have the advantage there. That's why I raced home- I was afraid she was going to double back swimming. You spend so much time on the beach…’ He trailed off, a catch in his throat. ‘Sam came back with you… is everyone else home, too?’ I hoped they weren’t still out searching for her. ‘Yeah. Sort of.’ I tried to read his expression, squinting into the hammering rain. His eyes were tight with worry or pain. The words that hadn't made sense before suddenly did. ‘You said… hospital. Before, to Sam. Is someone hurt? Did she fight you?’ My voice jumped up an octave, sounding strange with the hoarseness. Marcel’s eyes tightened again. ‘It doesn't look so great right now.’ Abruptly, I felt sick with guilt-felt truly horrible about the brainless cliff dive. Nobody needed to be worrying about me right now. What a stupid time to be reckless. ‘What can I do?’ I asked. At that moment the rain stopped. I hadn't realized we were already back at Marcel’s house until he walked through the door. The storm pounded against the roof. ‘You can stay here,’ Marcel said as he dumped me on the short couch. ‘I mean it right here I'll get you some dry clothes.’ I let my eyes adjust to the darkroom while Marcel banged around in his bedroom. The cramped front room seemed so empty without Billy, almost desolate. It was strangely ominous-probably just because I knew where he was. Marcel was back in seconds. He threw a pile of gray cotton at me. ‘These will be huge on you, but it's the best I've got. I'll-a, step outside so you can change.’ ‘Don't go anywhere. I'm too tired to move yet. Just stay with me.

I sucked in my lips and leaned against the camper door. "Which one is the real you? The charming rogue slash professional thief or the highly trained secret undercover agent?" Jack walked over and leaned his forearm against the door above my head, his gaze never leaving mine. "Which one do you want?" My pulse kicked up a notch and a white-hot heat shot through my veins. "I want the real you." Jack cupped my jaw, tilting my face back as his lips came down on mine. "You have the real me." I melted against him, drowning in his kiss. I wanted to go back to the time when there was trust between us and life hadn't gotten in the way. He lifted my hand and brushed his lips softly over my knuckles. "I never saw a more beautiful sight than you hanging out the window of a speeding truck, screaming my name." "You didn't answer." Slowly, carefully, he kissed my hand, claiming every inch of bare skin with a gentleness I didn't know he possessed. "I had a knife between my teeth." "I suppose that's a good excuse." I tipped my head back for another kiss. Alone for the first time since the chase, knowing he was safe, I felt overwhelmed with the need to have him close, to feel his body against mine. His smell, his taste, his heat, his desire--- I wanted them all. His lips met mine and I explored the depths of his mouth, tangling my tongue with his as I slid one hand under his shirt to feel his warmth and the firm, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. When we broke apart to take a breath, I pressed a kiss to his throat, licking the saltiness from his skin. He backed away, one step, then two, leaving me bereft. "What's wrong?" "Chloe is in the truck." "She's a very heavy sleeper." I trailed my fingers over every hard ripple of his abdomen, following the soft trail that disappeared beneath his belt.

Hold on,” Ettrek said. “What qualifies you to be in charge of this mission, anyway?” “I’m better than you,” I said. “At everything.” Teka rolled her eyes. “She knows the target, Trek. You want to charge into Voa to kill a man you don’t understand or know at all?” Ettrek shrugged. “Guess not.” “Everybody take this week to do what you need to get done,” Teka said. “I’ll start getting the ship ready now. I might need a new gravity compressor, and I know we need food.” “And,” I said, thinking of what Isae had used to kill my brother, “maybe some new kitchen knives.” Teka wrinkled her nose, likely remembering the same thing. “Definitely.” “Anyway, we might not be coming back, so…” I shrugged. “Say your good-byes.” “You’re just bursting with optimism, aren’t you,” Ettrek said. “Did you expect the person leading your assassination mission to be cheerful?” I said. “If so, I think you’re in the wrong field.” I set my half-finished bowl of breakfast down, and drew the knife at my hip instead. I leaned across the table and pointed the blade at him. “And by the way, if you call me ‘Scourge’ again, I will cut that stupid knot right off the top of your head.” Ettrek licked his lips, considering my knife. “Okay,” he finally said. “Cyra.

You think to protect Jacques by leaving him here with me as my bodyguard.” “You see too much.” “More than you know.” Her eyes softened, warmed. “You think you are going to do something I will be unable to accept, but I believe in you, Mikhail. I think you are a great and fair man. You have every right to despise Romanov, but I know you can put that aside and do what is right. He is a young man, confused and angry, shaken and traumatized by his parents’ brutal deaths. Whatever he found that linked you to those deaths has driven him into a breakdown. It’s a terrible tragedy.” Mikhail closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. She was effectively tying his hands. How could he go out and kill a man for torturing Raven when she was compassionate enough to forgive him? He bent his head and licked along the closest scar, that fading red/purple shiny strip where the knife had plunged through her precious skin. “I do not know how to answer you, Raven. I am not nearly the forgiving man you believe me to be.

She held the knife, slowly cutting away, inch by inch, searching for secrets, shame, pain. She licked the blood off the knife with a smirk and whispered crimson poetry in his ear.

Lick the knife until you bleed. Sebian likes the sound of your moan. Indulge him.

Then they were served a small beeswax cup filled with flowers and crunchy bee pollen, followed by a presentation of a large shawarma, or at least what looked like a shawarma, adorned with roasted onions and rosemary, cut tableside. Pia explained that it was not made from lamb or chicken, as is traditional, but instead from celery root and truffles, before it was cooked on a spit for hours. One of the chefs used a large knife to slice off thin pieces of the "meat," plating it with greens, roasted apple, and red currants, before smothering the plate in a brown "jus." Cassie cut off a small bite and was surprised by how much it tasted like meat. It was earthy, salty, sweet, rich, and incredibly delicious. "Well, this is way better than the shawarma cart in my neighborhood," said Rebecca, practically licking her plate. "No kidding," agreed Ben, soaking up the jus with a fat slice of sourdough bread.

I am soft- mouthed sloe-eyed sacrifice. Deer/girl here to bleed. My mouth tastes of Mycenae, father. Tastes of white rock tombs. Father, oh! Father, father. Look at me my hair your hair splayed over this stone. My eyes your eyes watching this knife. The sharp edge of it with the sea reflected. My white dress and myth-kings licking the ocean-wet cling of it with their gaze. I am princess, helpless, hungered for. You’d eat me alive for the wind.

The figure in the vicinity of my left foot did an about-face and stood staring down at me. She wore a blue robe, but there was no mask upon her fire-reddened face. There was only a tight smile, which went away when she licked her lips. It was Julia, and there was a knife in her right hand.