Page 181 of Craving Venom
I come hard.
Thick, hot ropes shoot across her, streaking her clit, her thighs, soaking every trembling inch of her ruined pussy until she’s dripping with me.
My cum drips down the seam of her pussy, pooling right at her entrance. I grab her hips, spread her wider, and shove it inside with two fingers, forcing it into her as she flinches under the overstimulation.
“Fuck—Zane—what are you—”
I shove it deeper.
“Next time,” I growl, dragging my fingers out slow, “I’ll fill you from the inside.”
I force myself off her.
It feels like tearing muscle from bone. My cock jerks even as I shove it back into my jeans. But if I stay, I’ll ruin her for real. I’ll keep going until she’s not just wrecked but destroyed.
So I turn and head for the door, the one she doesn’t believe I use. She still thinks I climb through her fucking window like a lunatic with a hard-on, but I don’t sneak. I break.
On the way out, I drop to my knees and pull the tools and a replacement lock from my pocket. I remove the old one, set it aside, and screw the new lock into place, twisting it tight, fitting it clean. By the time she wakes, she won’t notice a thing. I’ve done it so many times I could do it blind. She’ll never know the difference, not unless she starts counting serial numbers, and even then, I’ll just change them again.
I jog down the back stairs. On the street, I spot a sleek black Benz parked under a half-dead streetlight. Idiots. I punch through the window, glass spraying everywhere, pop the lock, slip inside, and rip the panel off the steering column. The wires spark when I twist them together, and the engine growls to life.
I slam the gearstick into drive and floor it. Rubber burns, streetlights blur past, and I know I should cool off, lay low, but my cock’s still throbbing and my hands are itching for something to break. I need an outlet, now.
I peel off the freeway, threading through the hills and dark backroads until the estate appears, locked down with steel gates, motion detectors, and security systems that would make most people turn back.
Not me.
I park a few blocks down, grab my tools again, and hike the perimeter. The camera blind spot’s still there. I scale the wall and land light on my feet.
The panel’s near the garage. Rich fucks always think they’re untouchable with their state-of-the-art security. They forget thatthe people who built these systems aren’t smarter than the ones who know how to tear them apart.
I pull the UV light from my pocket. One press, and the faint purple glow comes to life. I hover it over the keypad. The oily smudges of fingerprints bloom, smeared across the numbers. Four digits stand out.
0, 2, 5, 8.
Amateurs.
The code’s always a weak link. Four digits. Ten thousand possibilities if you’re dumb enough to try brute force. But I’m not.
My mind snaps through the permutations. 4 factorial. Twenty-four possible combinations. Most people use what’s comfortable. Repeated patterns. Symmetry. Psychological tendencies. I strip through the bullshit, eliminating the obvious.
8, 0, 2, 5.
No. Not symmetrical enough.
5, 2, 8, 0.
No. Too spread.
2, 0, 8, 5.
Bingo. I press the numbers and panel flashes green.
Unlocked.
They never learn.
I slip the light back into my pocket and run my fingers over the edge of the panel. No secondary system. No heat sensors. Just another overpriced illusion of safety. The door clicks open with a whisper, and I step inside.
