“I am going to kill you,” she snarls, a lifetime of elocution lessons making themselves known in the sharp snap of her words.

His laughter boils across her skin, and she shrieks and slaps and scratches, and when her hands close around his throat, it stops.

Her thumb presses into his windpipe, and his eyes are dark as her own; he mocks her with those eyes, and the gurgle from his lips sounds like laughter.

Her nails dig into his skin, and when she imagines edging them deeper still, into the blood and meat of him, her orgasm is exquisite.