There was something beautiful about her madness.
Reileen didn't try to hide it. She didn't pretend to be sane. She just was. Raw, volatile, volcanic. A woman who would burn cities to ash if I so much as whispered a name in my sleep.
And I… I wanted to see just how far she'd go.
So I started pushing.
Her name was Camila. Half-Spanish, half-Korean, all curves and confidence. I met her at an underground fight ring in the slums—she was tending the wounds of her half-conscious boyfriend, who had just gotten his jaw shattered.
"You want someone who knows how to use their hands," I said to her, wiping blood off my knuckles. "I'll show you what real strength feels like."
She followed me without hesitation.
We didn't make it to a bed.
Camila was dripping before we even reached the elevator of my hotel. I had her pressed against the mirrored wall, pants shoved down, panties hanging from one ankle. I slid into her from behind as the lift rose floor by floor, her moans echoing off the walls.
The mirror reflected everything—my hands on her hips, her face contorted in pleasure, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.
"You like fucking a killer?" I hissed into her ear.
She nodded rapidly, eyes rolling back. "Yes! Please don't stop—"
I didn't.
Not until she came, crying out my name just as the doors slid open.
We stumbled into the suite. I tossed her onto the bed and climbed on top, fucking her again—rougher, harder. Hair-pulling, ass-slapping, sweat-dripping sex. I gripped her throat just tight enough to choke her while she begged for more, taking everything I gave her like she needed it to breathe.
And all the while, I felt Reileen watching.
Not literally—yet—but I knew she would come.
I wanted her to.
She came after Camila left.
I didn't even try to hide it. The sheets were still soaked with sweat and sex. Camila's panties were on the floor, her lipstick on the glass of whiskey by the bed.
Reileen walked in like a queen entering her throne room.
No words.
Just silence.
Then she dropped the severed hand of Camila's boyfriend onto the table with a wet thunk.
I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't like him?"
"He looked at you."
"He was unconscious."
"I don't care."
She was unzipping her coat. Underneath? Nothing but skin and a thin choker wrapped around her throat like a leash.
"I'm not going to stop," I said, watching her slide the coat off her shoulders, revealing her bare, flawless body. "You know that."
She climbed onto the bed.
"I count the orgasms you give them," she whispered, straddling me. "Then I make you give me more."
She grabbed my cock and guided it inside her, grinding slow and deep. "You fucked her twice," she hissed. "So now you fuck me three times. Right here. Right now."
I grabbed her waist.
"Then ride me like you want to kill me."
She did.
And it was magnificent.
The first time, she bounced on top of me like a woman possessed, slapping her ass against my thighs, leaving red marks on my chest with her nails, screaming as she came. The second time, she flipped me over and made me fuck her from behind, face pressed into the mattress while she begged and wept and came again. The third? I tied her wrists to the bedframe with Camila's thong, shoved her knees to her chest, and pounded her until she was trembling and bruised and begging for mercy.
She didn't want mercy.
She wanted proof.
Proof she was better.
Proof she was everything.
When I finally collapsed beside her, spent and gasping, she curled into my chest like a kitten made of knives.
"Sleep with someone else tomorrow," she whispered into my skin. "I want to bleed again."
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