Colt. She sights it, one eye scanning the beads at the end, and slaps the whole thing back together, carefully priming each section with a tramp down using a lint-free cloth.
Then she's on to her knives. She doesn’t have many, but all are martial arts oriented.
She even has a throwing star.
“You're not just a mule,” I say, pacing over to the door.
Juliette looks up from sharpening a familiar-looking blade. “No.”
A black light would light that thing up with blood spatter.
She rubs lanolin and Neosporin on the abrasions of her knuckles.
My gaze moves to her hands and locks on.
“I don't know if I'll have to defend myself again. If I fight in too quick of succession, my knuckles will be stiff because of the wounds. But if I use this”—she holds up the lanolin—“it allows flexibility, suppleness of movement.” Her lips twitch. “And who knows what those guys were carrying, germ-wise.” She lifts up the tube of antiseptic ointment.
My eyes are steady on the implements of the trade.
Her lip begins to tremble and I come off my lean against the jamb. My body fills the doorway, casting her in shadow from the light behind me.
Juliette brushes her hand over her cheeks as she cries for the cretin she killed.
Who knows what happened to the other.
I'm not broken up about them. They would have incapacitated Juliette and returned her like a broken doll to that French pimp, Shepard.
I grab her duffel. The door I shut and lock.
Her eyes never leave mine.
Expectant.
Alive.
I fall even harder. It's not something I can stop. My iron control of my emotions, my life—and everyone in it—slides down the slippery slope that is Juliette.
18
Juliette
I feel guilty.
I feel sublime.
It is slow this time, our lovemaking. I don't think either of us understood what we were starting in my apartment just days ago.
Now he takes me as if he'll lose me. He savors each touch.
Thorn sets my weapons on the nightstand, and it’s just he and I. Kiki is out getting supplies for the short time I'll be here.
The quiet is profound—swollen—as he strips off my clothes.
My skin is still damp from the shower as I lie back and toss my arms behind me.
Thorn accepts my unspoken invitation. He slides my shirt up and over my head, leaving it in a knot behind me. I keep my arms where they are.
When sex isn't a maneuvering technique or something required, it becomes organic. Each caress builds on the last, our breathing propelling us like two mountain climbers toward that mutual peak of ecstasy.
I can lie here and not think. I can let my instincts guide me for pleasure instead of survival.
Thorn has given that gift to me in the handful of days I've known him. He blanks my head. His large hands are espresso against my cafe au lait skin. Dark and perfect, they trail down between my breasts.
Then his mouth is there, his full lips pressing into that soft spot that separates what his hands now knead.
I groan, scissoring my legs at his touch. I'm full-breasted, but his hands are so large they overwhelm my flesh. He squeezes, and I make a small noise of encouragement.
“ Oui ,” I whisper, and he responds in French.
He calls me his sweet.
It's a common expression for the French, but whispered in his gruff tones, I respond, parting my legs. He swims between them.
“Too many clothes,” I say, panting.
He ignores me, wrapping his hands around my waist and bringing his mouth to my nipples. He laves one until the bundle of flesh fills his mouth in a hard pebble of arousal.
Thorn moves to the other, suckling until I cry out.
“That's it, baby.”
“Please...” I'm boneless. I'm wet. I want to be taken by Thorn. I want to watch him while he does it.
Before, I left my body so I could perform.
There is no performance here, it's all interactive, spontaneous lust.
And maybe something else, though I don't analyze what.
“Hey,” he smooths the crease between my forehead with his thumb. “Stop thinking so
Then she's on to her knives. She doesn’t have many, but all are martial arts oriented.
She even has a throwing star.
“You're not just a mule,” I say, pacing over to the door.
Juliette looks up from sharpening a familiar-looking blade. “No.”
A black light would light that thing up with blood spatter.
She rubs lanolin and Neosporin on the abrasions of her knuckles.
My gaze moves to her hands and locks on.
“I don't know if I'll have to defend myself again. If I fight in too quick of succession, my knuckles will be stiff because of the wounds. But if I use this”—she holds up the lanolin—“it allows flexibility, suppleness of movement.” Her lips twitch. “And who knows what those guys were carrying, germ-wise.” She lifts up the tube of antiseptic ointment.
My eyes are steady on the implements of the trade.
Her lip begins to tremble and I come off my lean against the jamb. My body fills the doorway, casting her in shadow from the light behind me.
Juliette brushes her hand over her cheeks as she cries for the cretin she killed.
Who knows what happened to the other.
I'm not broken up about them. They would have incapacitated Juliette and returned her like a broken doll to that French pimp, Shepard.
I grab her duffel. The door I shut and lock.
Her eyes never leave mine.
Expectant.
Alive.
I fall even harder. It's not something I can stop. My iron control of my emotions, my life—and everyone in it—slides down the slippery slope that is Juliette.
18
Juliette
I feel guilty.
I feel sublime.
It is slow this time, our lovemaking. I don't think either of us understood what we were starting in my apartment just days ago.
Now he takes me as if he'll lose me. He savors each touch.
Thorn sets my weapons on the nightstand, and it’s just he and I. Kiki is out getting supplies for the short time I'll be here.
The quiet is profound—swollen—as he strips off my clothes.
My skin is still damp from the shower as I lie back and toss my arms behind me.
Thorn accepts my unspoken invitation. He slides my shirt up and over my head, leaving it in a knot behind me. I keep my arms where they are.
When sex isn't a maneuvering technique or something required, it becomes organic. Each caress builds on the last, our breathing propelling us like two mountain climbers toward that mutual peak of ecstasy.
I can lie here and not think. I can let my instincts guide me for pleasure instead of survival.
Thorn has given that gift to me in the handful of days I've known him. He blanks my head. His large hands are espresso against my cafe au lait skin. Dark and perfect, they trail down between my breasts.
Then his mouth is there, his full lips pressing into that soft spot that separates what his hands now knead.
I groan, scissoring my legs at his touch. I'm full-breasted, but his hands are so large they overwhelm my flesh. He squeezes, and I make a small noise of encouragement.
“ Oui ,” I whisper, and he responds in French.
He calls me his sweet.
It's a common expression for the French, but whispered in his gruff tones, I respond, parting my legs. He swims between them.
“Too many clothes,” I say, panting.
He ignores me, wrapping his hands around my waist and bringing his mouth to my nipples. He laves one until the bundle of flesh fills his mouth in a hard pebble of arousal.
Thorn moves to the other, suckling until I cry out.
“That's it, baby.”
“Please...” I'm boneless. I'm wet. I want to be taken by Thorn. I want to watch him while he does it.
Before, I left my body so I could perform.
There is no performance here, it's all interactive, spontaneous lust.
And maybe something else, though I don't analyze what.
“Hey,” he smooths the crease between my forehead with his thumb. “Stop thinking so
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