The laptop screen glowed against my face when Andrew burst through the door, his presence filling the apartment with manic energy. Before I could react, he swept the computer from my lap, setting it aside with exaggerated care.
"The Times called it 'transcendent'!" His words tumbled out bourbon-soaked and triumphant. "Art Forum said I've 'redefined vulnerability in contemporary art.' They're worshipping me, Angie. Actually worshipping."
His hands moved through the air, conducting an invisible orchestra of praise. I watched him pace, his success radiating from every gesture.
"Do you think you deserve it?" The question escaped before I could temper it.
He stopped mid-stride, confusion replacing euphoria. "What?"
"These paintings." I stood, facing him across the coffee table. "They were born from betrayal. From you hiding Hannah, from me discovering everything. Every canvas drips with our destruction."
"That's not—"
"And all I want—" My voice cracked with unexpected honesty. "All I want is to have you completely while knowing I could destroy you just as easily."
"Are you serious?" His eyes searched mine, the alcohol's haze clearing.
"Yes." The word hung between us like a blade. "I'm still hurt, Andrew. When you thanked me at the opening, in front of everyone—was that real? Or just another performance?"
His face cycled through emotions—surprise, hurt, something darker. Without a word, he turned and left the room.
I sank back onto the couch, reaching for the laptop. Nothing was going according to plan. Hannah's situation with Olivia, the constant threat of exposure, the possibility that I might lose Andrew entirely—and then what? Another descent into the gray void that had swallowed me before?
Footsteps returned. I looked up.
Andrew stood in the doorway, something glinting in his hand. Light caught metal—a knife from our kitchen.
"Do it," he said, his voice steady despite the bourbon. "Show me what you really want. Hold my life in your hands if that's what it takes."
Words died in my throat. I could only stare.
"You think I don't see what's happening?" He moved closer, the knife still extended.
"Andrew—"
"I want you to be happy." His voice broke on the last word. "Because despite everything—the affairs, the games, the violence we've done to each other—I love you. So take this. I don't care how it ends anymore."
Andrew’s hand wrapped around mine, his fingers hot and slick with desperation, pulling me toward the bedroom like a man possessed. The knife trembled between us, its metallic glint catching the dim light.
I didn’t resist. My body moved with his, my pulse racing, my cunt already throbbing with the anticipation of what was to come.
The room smelled of us—sweat, bourbon, and the faint musk of sex that clung to the air like a second skin.
He didn’t bother with the lights; the shadows danced on the walls, watching us, as he tossed the knife onto the bed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, his movements deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. Those fucking eyes—dark, hungry, and filled with something I couldn’t name.
He pulled me close, his hands rough yet tender, guiding me down until I was straddling him, my thighs gripping his hips like a vise. His dick pressed against me, hard and insistent through the fabric of his pants, and I whimpered at the heat of it.
“Kiss me,” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly, and I obeyed without hesitation.
Our mouths collided—tongues tangling, teeth grazing, bourbon and desperation thick on my tongue.
I wore nothing but a silk robe; his hands slid beneath it, callused fingers mapping bare skin, leaving thin, burning trails everywhere they went.
I tugged at his belt, fumbling with the buckle until it gave way, and then his pants were down, his cock springing free, thick and pulsing against my thigh.
“Fuck,” I gasped, my hand wrapping around him, squeezing the length of him, feeling the way he throbbed in my grip.
He growled, hips bucking into my hand, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I slipped the silk robe off my shoulders, and then his mouth was on my tits, his tongue swirling around my nipples, sucking and biting until I cried out.
He leaned back, pulling me with him until I was stretched out on top of him, my hips grinding into his, his dick nestled against my soaked pussy.
He reached for the knife, his fingers brushing against mine as he guided it into my hand. My breath hitched as he pressed the cool blade to his throat, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Do it,” he whispered, his voice steady despite the bourbon, despite the madness of what we were about to do. “Ruin me.”
I hesitated for a moment, my hand trembling, the blade pressing lightly against his skin.
And then I did it—I pressed harder, just enough to feel the resistance of his flesh, to see the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his eyes darkened with fear and arousal.
It was insane, it was fucking depraved, and I loved it.
He groaned, his hips rolling up into mine, his dick sliding against my wetness, and I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I shifted, lining him up with my dripping cunt, and then sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he was buried deep inside me.
I moaned, my head falling back as I rocked against him, the knife still pressed to his throat, the threat of it making every thrust hotter, every sensation more intense.
“Fuck, Angie,” he growled, his hands gripping my hips, guiding me as I rode him, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. “You feel so goddamn good.”
I leaned down, my lips brushing against his ear as I whispered, “I could kill you right now.” The words sent a shiver through both of us, and he groaned, his hips bucking up into me, his dick hitting that sweet spot inside me that made me see stars.
“Do it,” he breathed, his voice ragged with need. “Fucking do it.”
I pressed the blade harder, just enough to draw a bead of blood, and he let out a strangled moan, his hands tightening on my hips as he thrust up into me, his dick pistoning in and out of my wet, needy pussy.
I was close, so fucking close, and I could feel him trembling beneath me, his control slipping.
“Come with me,” he begged, his voice a hoarse whisper, and I nodded, my body already spiraling toward that edge.
The knife slipped from my hand as I came, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my cunt clamping down on him as he spilled inside me, his dick pulsing as he filled me with his release.
We collapsed together, panting and trembling, the knife forgotten as we clung to each other. His hand reached up, his fingers grazing the scratch I’d left on his throat, and he smiled, a twisted, satisfied grin that sent another shiver through me.
“Damn,” he murmured, pulling me close, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re perfect.”
And I believed him.