"Dear heart," I murmured gently, "Where do you think I got these?" I convinced one of my hands to relinquish its death-grip on his shirt and lifted i... to my shoulder. With one finger I traced a set of three shallow slices just below the strap of my tank top, then two more along the curve of my bicep, and another along the veins of my forearm. "I didn’t do these myself, love." I’m not sure if it’s a curse or a blessing of being a known cutter who’s also into blood- and knife-play, that when. . you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.” said a very surprised man in a sport coat and slacks. He looked confused and almost frightened. He stood about 5’ 9” to my 6’ 3”. He was also reaching for something in his pocket with his left hand and his shirt and jacket exposed enough of his wrist to show part of a tattoo.I grabbed his arm and slid the sleeve of his coat and shirt up. “Look you stupid bitch, isn’t this the tattoo that is in those pictures?” As I asked the question, a knife. Yet Miranda French’s demeanour had not altered, except to mellow into something like friendship as their working relationship had drawn towards its end. Carly was home free. There was no reversing what she had done. It was time to forget and enjoy. Wear it out on the town with the boy who had just suggested she move in with him. Her heart thrilled, driving away the last of her negativity.Miranda was waiting for her in the Cellar Gaston wine bar on the junction of The Strand and Savoy. I felt the swelling in my hand as a torrent of white bullets s**ttered across his chest and stomach. His orgasm was much more violent than mine, as he kicked and bucked, knocking his head back into me. I held him tight, milking every last drop out of him.It seemed like forever when he finally calmed down. I ran my white splattered hand over his body, rubbing it into his skin. He was still trying to catch his breath while I was enjoying the feel of his body against mine. I knew we would have to.
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