Primal Pursuit

I know who she is and why she looks familiar.

Question is, does she know who I am? She knows my name. But does she know who I amto her?

Penelope Jane Parish. Now going by the name Poppy Moore.

Daughter of Harrison and Kelly Jane Parish.

I remember that night like it was yesterday.

Penelope was a kid when it all went down, but that shit fucks a kid right up.

So. She’s angry.

But the fucking scissors? And when I was balls deepinside her? Oh, that was sweet. Almost as sweet when I made her nick my skin and she came on my cock.

It makes me want to find out just how far she’s willing to go.

“What’s to stop me from killing you right now, Rabbit?”

She swallows, hard, and licks her lips. For a naked girl who just got nailed to within an inch of her life, not to mention whipped and taken down a sleazy path into humiliation, she’s surprisingly calm. Confident, even.

“If you’re going to shoot me, do it,” she sneers.

“Looks like we’re both fucked up.”

“One more than the other.”

“You know, for someone who has a gun pointed at her face, you know how to hold an even-keeled level of conversation. It’s kinda making my dick hard all over again.”

“Not my first conversation with a psychopath.”

I tuck her gun into the small of my back, standing as she perches herself up on her elbows, her hair a tangled, sexy mess.

The expression on her face undoes something inside me, making it unfurl. She despises me and wants me all at the same time, and that struggle is something so sharply beautiful I could hang it in a gallery and watch it all fucking day.

It thrills me to see that glitter of hate.

I squat, trailing fingers over her, nipples hardening, then down to her cunt lips where she’s red and wet. I run fingertips over her clit, and she moans and shudders.

Oh, fuck, that hooks deep into my pleasure center, her lust and resentment.

The conflict sparks flames in me, from the physical to the psychological.

I’m going to enjoy our game going forward. Enjoy the utter mindfuck.

Because it occurs to me, she thinks she’s in control.

She’s under the impression I have no idea who she is.

Even if I didn’t have all the resources at my disposal to figure out who she was, the tattoo on the back of her neck is a dead giveaway. It’s an exact replica of the rose I have on my hand, only hers is red while mine is black. And mine lacks the thorns that scatter down from her rose.

Twelve thorns. My guess is it’s one for each year that I’m still breathing after killing her parents. And the last one isn’t inked in. Yet.

I smile, sprawl down next to her, and pick up the lipstick that was in her bag, the one that fell out of my pocket while I stripped to fuck her, to finally have that cunt.

It was worth it. She’s worth it.

Everything about her is delicious. Whether she knows it’s me or not.