Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,79
gently pulled out of my body. I blushed as he cupped my pussy, smacking it lightly a few times the way you might a well-trained pet. It made my exhausted body tingle again, lit up with shame in a way I didn’t know could be sexy.
I whimpered softly as he smeared his cum over my clit, then back up all the way to my asshole, which I clenched shyly. His soft exhale was a laugh for Priest. My panties and fishnets were ruined beyond recognition, so he tore them off my legs with efficient tugs, then flipped my skirt back down, smoothing it gratuitously over my ass.
Only then did he pull me up and turn me around, one arm banded around my low back and the other at my face, fingers abrading along my swelling, pink cheek.
“I’m gonna kill ’im for touchin’ you,” he swore darkly, eyes a hot brand on my injury. “Gonna string that motherfucker up by his hands so his arms dislocate, then take my time slicin’ him into pretty ribbons. When I’m done with that, when he’s told me why the fuck he attacked you, I’ll gut him like a fish, sliced right through the soft belly. I’ll reach in and pull out his innards so I can feel him die from the inside out as I watch it happen.”
I stared into those luminous eyes with their long russet lashes, such pretty eyes for such a cruel man. I wanted him to read in my own gaze the words he’d carved into my heart long before he’d even touched me. Priest would never cross a line that would be too far for me to handle. He was capable of devastating violence, but he would never hurt my loved ones, if only because they were loved by me, and so was he.
Whatever I succeeded in writing on the screens of my blue eyes, Priest read the way a monk devours scripture. When he was done, his long sigh gusted against my face a moment before he tilted his forehead to mine. We rested there like that, his hand on my face, mine pressed to his chest, one over the rough woven badge on his breast that read “Enforcer”, until the cum between my legs began to dry and my heartbeat mellowed to match the steady thud I felt against my fingertips.
Finally, he pulled away to run his finger in the blood gathered in the hollow of my collarbone. With it, he drew on the only white corner left on my crop top. I let him, gazing up at him with all the bright, bursting love I felt in my chest radiating through my eyes.
When he was done, he gave me a slight curt nod. The passion that had suffused his face with human beauty was gone, leaving him once more cold and perfect as a statue. He flipped open his burner phone and dialled a number, bringing it to his cheek as he greeted Wrath.
I turned to the mirror, eyes already falling to the sketch he’d drawn on my shirt.
A wobbly, blood-drawn heart.
And just like that, Priest had once again turned one of the worst moments of my life into one of the very best.
Priest
There was an art to torture.
Few were natural talents and even fewer learned true skill.
It wasn’t one’s capacity for violence that made a torturer proficient.
It was one’s capacity for patience.
A man in physical agony can withstand a surprising amount of physical pain before he breaks. It’s the mental suffering that opens them up like a stuck lid banged against the counter.
In fact, it’s a simple recipe, really. First, imagination. Nothing was unthinkable; everything was geared toward the absolute desecration and dismantling of a human mind and body. Add that to prolonged time, both of inflicting torment for hours but also anticipation, so that they wonder themselves into madness guessing at when the next strike will land, and small hurts collected over time. Timing was everything, which explained why the tortured made the best torturers. Nothing counts more than experience.
With the hooded would-be rapist, I started as you might imagine, by targeting his erogenous zones. I strung him up in the barn on Angelwood Farm where the club often disposed of bodies or conducted illicit meetings. Manacled his hands in thick cuffs attached to chains on a pulley system fixed to the vaulted wood ceiling and strung him up until the satisfying pop of his dislocating shoulders echoed in the drafty barn.