My thumb tapped open before I could stop it.
@bastioncrow: That dress is a problem.
Behind me, another body hit the pit.
@emiliaadams: Why? Too pink for you?
The corner of my mouth twitched. I flicked ash into the pit instead.
@bastioncrow: Too tight. Can’t stop staring.
“Boss?” another man shouted over the churn of the trucks. “You want the rest bagged or straight in?”
My eyes stayed on the screen. “Headfirst. No bags. Cement’s cleaner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Concrete poured. Screams muffled into slurry.
@emiliaadams: Then stop staring.
I ground the cigarette out against the steel pillar, thumb moving before thought.
@bastioncrow: Can’t. Even if I wanted to. You know that.
She made me wait this time. Long enough for the sounds of work to push in — men grunting, chains rattling, the slap of boots as they shoved another rival closer to the pit.
@emiliaadams: Maybe I like it when you stare.
Heat hit me harder than smoke.
@bastioncrow: Careful, angel. I don’t stare. I take.
Another rival thrashed, elbows cracking against the concrete edge. My men shoved harder, boots holding his spine down until his voice cut off. The cement rose higher.
@emiliaadams: Then maybe I want to be taken.
My pulse slammed, louder than the trucks, sharper than the groans of dying men.
@bastioncrow: Say it again.
@emiliaadams: Maybe I want you to take me.
My grip tightened around the phone.
@bastioncrow: Good girl. You have no idea what that does to me.
@emiliaadams: What does it do?
The corner of my mouth tugged.
@bastioncrow: Makes me want to ruin that dress. Put you on your knees. Hear you choke on my cock until you cry, and still call you perfect.
“Boss?” one of my men asked, shovel braced in drying cement. “Slab’s ready. You want us to pour?”
“Do it. I want silence by sunrise.”
“Yes, sir.”
