The plan had been made three days ago, over dinner at the kitchen table, in plain light, with no games in the air at all. Elena had said she wanted to try it. Damion had said they would do it right — a safeword, a script, a hard stop, and a signal. Her safeword was red. Yellow meant slow down. Green meant more.

She was twenty-eight years old, and she had been married to Damion, who was thirty-two, for three years. She knew exactly what she was asking for.

— Tonight you are prey, — he said, standing behind her in the hallway, his hands on her shoulders, his mouth close to her ear. — When the timer goes off, I hunt you. If you make it to the bedroom and lock the door, you win. If I catch you, you lose, and I kill you my way.

— Your way? — she asked, her voice already shaking.

— I murder you with pleasure, mamacita, — he said. — You know how this works. You run. I hunt. And when I catch you, I fuck you until you are dead and gone and screaming my name.

She nodded. They had negotiated it all: the house was the hunting ground, downstairs only, no leaving, no weapons, no real fear, no real harm. The thrill was the game. She wanted the game.

The timer buzzed from the kitchen. He counted down out loud.

— Three, — he said. — Two. One. Run.

Elena ran.

Her bare feet slapped the hardwood as she tore down the hallway toward the living room. Her nightdress fluttered against her thighs — a thin black slip he had bought her for exactly this, something that tore easy and showed everything. She could hear him behind her, not running yet, just walking, slow and patient, because he knew the house better than she knew her own heartbeat and he knew she could not outrun him.

— Run, run, mamacita, — his voice came from behind her, low and dark and delighted. — The killer is coming.

She veered into the living room and threw herself behind the couch, her chest heaving, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. This was the part that made her wet — the chase, the pretend fear, the knowledge that he was coming for her and that when he caught her he would do exactly what they had agreed: whatever he wanted, and she would take it, because she had begged for it.

She heard his footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Circling.

— I can hear you breathing, — he said, from somewhere near the bookshelf.

She scrambled up and bolted for the dining room, her foot catching the edge of the rug. She went down hard on her hands and knees, and before she could get up his hand was in her hair, fisting it, dragging her head back.

— Caught you, — he growled.

He yanked her up by her hair and spun her around, and her back hit the dining room wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her. His body pressed into hers, pinning her, and she felt the full hard length of him through his jeans, thick and throbbing against her belly.

— You lose, — he said, his eyes black with heat. — Time to die.

— Papacito, please, — she gasped, and it was part of the game and all of it real at the same time.

He kissed her like a killer would — no tenderness, no asking, just taking her mouth open and filling it, his tongue plunging deep, his teeth scraping her lower lip hard enough to sting. She moaned into him, her hands coming up to claw at his shirt, and he ripped her slip straight down the middle, the fabric tearing apart in his fists.

She stood there naked against the wall, panting, her nipples already hard, her pussy already slick and swollen, and he stepped back to look at her like she was his prize.

— Get on your knees, — he said.

She dropped. The rug was rough under her knees. He unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out, and it stood out thick and heavy, the head dark and leaking, the veins standing out along the shaft, pulsing with his heartbeat.

— Open, — he said.

She opened her mouth wide, and he fed her his cock, pushing it deep in one thrust until it hit the back of her throat. She gagged and swallowed around him, her throat working, and he groaned and grabbed her hair tighter.

— That's it, take it all, mamacita, — he said. — Take the killer's cock down your throat.

He fucked her mouth hard, his hips driving, his cock sliding in and out of her throat, her saliva dripping down her chin onto her tits. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked him with everything she had, her tongue working the underside of his shaft, her throat massaging his head every time he pushed deep. She could feel him throbbing in her mouth, getting harder, swelling, and she knew he was close.

— Fuck, — he hissed, and pulled out, leaving her gasping, drool stringing from her lips to his cock.

He dragged her up by her hair and bent her over the dining table, her tits pressed flat against the wood, her ass in the air. She felt his hand come down hard on her ass cheek — a crack that echoed in the room — and she cried out, the sting blooming hot across her skin.

— You like being caught, don't you? — he said, spanking her again, harder, alternating cheeks until her ass was burning red. — You like the killer taking what he wants.

— Yes, — she sobbed. — Yes, papacito, yes.

He spread her legs wide with his knee and ran his cock along her soaking slit, coating himself in her wetness. She was dripping, her pussy swollen and aching, and when he pushed the thick head of his cock against her entrance she whimpered.

— Tell me you want to die, — he said.

— Kill me, — she gasped. — Kill me with it, papacito. Please.

He drove into her in one brutal thrust, burying his cock to the hilt in her tight pussy, and she screamed. Her walls stretched around him, gripping him, her whole body arching off the table. He was so thick, so deep, filling her completely, and he didn't give her a second to adjust.

— Take it, — he snarled, and started fucking her hard.

His cock slammed in and out of her pussy, each thrust driving her forward across the table, the wood creaking under them. He grabbed her hips and yanked her back onto him, impaling her deeper, his balls slapping against her clit with every stroke. She was moaning nonstop, high and desperate, her fingers clawing at the table.

— Fuck, mamacita, — he groaned. — Your pussy is so fucking tight. Strangling my cock.

He reached around and found her clit with his fingers, rubbing it hard in tight circles while he pounded into her. She screamed, her pussy clenching down on his cock, the pleasure tearing through her.

— Don't you come, — he ordered. — Not until I say. You're not allowed to die yet.

— I can't — I can't hold it — she cried, her thighs shaking.

He pulled out of her suddenly, leaving her empty and aching, and flipped her onto her back on the table. He grabbed her legs and threw them over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half, and drove his cock back into her, deeper than before, the new angle hitting something inside her that made her vision go white.

— Now, — he said, his hand around her throat, squeezing just enough, exactly like they had agreed, pressure but never danger. — Now you die.

He pounded her without mercy, his cock hammering her pussy, his thumb grinding her clit, his hand firm on her throat. She came apart under him, her orgasm exploding through her, her pussy convulsing around his cock, her screams echoing off the walls. He didn't stop. He fucked her straight through it, into another one, her body jerking, her legs shaking on his shoulders, her moans turning to incoherent begging.

— One more, — he growled, his own voice breaking, his thrusts getting erratic. — Give me one more death, mamacita.

Her third orgasm ripped through her, and that was when he let go, his cock pulsing deep inside her, pumping thick hot ropes of cum into her pussy, filling her, his groan raw and savage in her ear.

They lay there tangled on the table, both of them shaking, his cock still buried in her, his cum leaking out around him. He kissed her then — soft, real, the killer gone.

— Green? — he whispered.

— Green, — she whispered back, smiling. — So green, papacito.

He carried her to the bedroom, because the game was over and she was his wife again, and he held her while she came down, his fingers gentle in her hair.

— Same time next month? — she murmured.

— I'll be hunting, — he said, and she shivered, already wet again.

The aftercare was as much a part of the plan as the hunt. Damion ran her a warm bath, because her knees were scraped from the rug and her ass was still stinging, and she sank into the water with a sigh while he sat on the edge of the tub and washed her hair.

— Tell me the truth, — he said. — Rate it.

— Nine, — she said, smiling up at him. — The table was a ten. The chase was an eight — you caught me too fast.

— Next time I give you a head start, — he said. — You want round two? Not as the game. As us.

She reached up out of the water and took his hand, pressing it to her wet breast.

— Green, papacito, — she said. — Always green for you.

He stripped off his shirt and jeans and climbed into the tub behind her, the water sloshing over the sides. She settled back against his chest, his cock already hardening again against her lower back, thick and insistent. His hands slid around to cup her breasts, his thumbs working her nipples until they peaked hard under his fingers.

— You have beautiful tits, mamacita, — he murmured, rolling her nipples between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to make her gasp. — The killer almost spared you for these alone.

— Almost? — she laughed, breathless.

— Almost, — he said, and bit her shoulder.

His hand slid down her belly, through the warm water, and found her pussy. She was still swollen and tender from the table, still leaking his cum, and his fingers parted her folds gently at first, teasing, circling her clit with soft slow strokes that made her whimper and press back against him.

— Open your legs for me, — he said.

She spread her thighs wide in the water, and he slid two fingers deep inside her, curling them, stroking that spongy spot inside her front wall while his thumb kept working her clit. She moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder, water lapping at her breasts.

— Papacito — she gasped. — Your fingers — fuck —

— Shh, — he said, his mouth on her neck. — Just feel it, mamacita. Let the killer finish the job slow this time.

His fingers moved faster, deeper, and she felt that familiar tightening, that rising pressure, and she came with a cry, her pussy clenching around his fingers, her whole body shuddering in the water. He didn't pull his fingers out. He kept stroking her through it, slower now, drawing it out, until she was panting and pushing at his wrist.

— Too much — she whispered. — Papacito, too much —

He withdrew his fingers and turned her around in the tub so she was straddling his lap, facing him. His cock stood up between them, thick and throbbing, the head flushed dark red. She reached down and wrapped her hand around it, stroking it slow, feeling it pulse in her fist.

— You want it again? — he asked.

— I want you, — she said. — All of you. Every time.

She rose up on her knees and lowered herself onto his cock, taking him inch by inch, her pussy stretching around his thickness, water sloshing around them. When he was fully inside her she sat still for a moment, just feeling him — the heavy fullness, the throb of his cock deep in her belly, the stretch of her walls around him.

— Ride me, — he said, his hands gripping her hips. — Ride your killer, mamacita.

She rode him slow at first, rising and sinking, her breasts bouncing in his face, and he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing it. She moaned and rode him faster, her pussy gripping his cock, the water churning around their joined bodies. His hands moved to her ass, guiding her, slamming her down onto him harder, and she cried out with every downward stroke, his cock hitting deep inside her.

— Fuck, you feel so good, — he groaned. — So tight, so wet. This pussy is mine, mamacita. All mine.

— Yours, — she gasped. — Yours, papacito. All yours.

He stood up suddenly, lifting her with him, his cock still buried deep in her pussy, and carried her out of the tub to the bathroom rug. He laid her down and drove into her hard, his weight on her, his mouth devouring hers, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and held on while he fucked her into the floor.

His cock pounded her pussy relentlessly, each thrust sending shockwaves through her, and she was moaning into his mouth, her nails raking down his back. She could feel him getting close — his cock swelling, throbbing harder, his thrusts turning wild.

— Come with me, — he growled against her lips. — Come with me, mamacita. Now.

She came, her pussy clamping down on his cock, her cry muffled by his mouth, and he came with her, his cock pulsing deep inside her, shooting his hot cum into her already-full pussy, his body shuddering over hers.

They lay there on the wet rug, breathing hard, laughing softly.

— I died twice tonight, — she said.

— Best kind of murder, — he said, and kissed her forehead.

They toweled off and went to bed, and he spooned her from behind, his hand resting possessively over her breast, his cock still half-hard against her ass. She fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, safe and claimed and thoroughly, completely his.

She dreamed of running. In the dream, he always caught her. In the dream, she always wanted him to.

Two weeks later, she left a note on the fridge: same game, bigger house rules, new safeword check-in. He read it, smiled slow, and started planning the hunt.

Because the killer always came back for his prey. And the prey always ran — straight into his arms.

She woke before dawn with his mouth on her breast.

Elena blinked awake in the gray light, and Damion was already there, propped on one elbow beside her, his lips wrapped around her nipple, sucking slow and deep. His hand was between her thighs, two fingers already inside her pussy, stroking her awake from the inside.

— Papacito, — she murmured, still half-asleep, her hips shifting toward his hand.

— Morning, mamacita, — he said against her skin. — The killer came back for one more.

She laughed, soft and drowsy, and spread her legs wider for him. His fingers moved inside her, curling, finding that spot that made her gasp, and his mouth moved to her other breast, his teeth scraping her nipple just enough to make her arch.

— God, your pussy is already wet, — he murmured. — You dream about me hunting you?

— Always, — she breathed.

He slid down her body, his mouth trailing kisses down her belly, and settled between her thighs. She felt his breath hot on her pussy, and then his tongue, flat and slow, licking up through her folds, from her entrance to her clit. She moaned, her hands fisting in the sheets.

— Papacito — she gasped. — Yes —

He ate her pussy like he had all the time in the world, his tongue circling her clit, dipping inside her, lapping up her wetness. He sucked her clit into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue, and she cried out, her hips bucking. He held her hips down with one strong arm and kept going, his tongue relentless, until she was sobbing his name.

— I'm gonna come — she gasped. — Papacito, I'm gonna —

He pushed two fingers deep inside her and curled them hard against her front wall while his tongue lashed her clit, and she came, her pussy convulsing, her juices flooding his mouth. He drank it all, groaning, and didn't stop licking her until she was trembling and pushing weakly at his head.

— Too much — she whispered. — Papacito, I can't —

He crawled up her body, his cock thick and throbbing and leaking against her thigh, and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his mouth. She reached down and guided him to her entrance, and he pushed inside her slow, deep, filling her completely.

— Fuck, — he groaned. — So tight in the morning, mamacita.

He fucked her slow and deep, his cock sliding in and out of her swollen pussy, every thrust deliberate, hitting deep. She wrapped her legs around him and her arms around his neck, and they moved together, moaning into each other's mouths, unhurried and perfect.

— I love you, — she whispered.

— I love you, — he said, his thrusts deepening, his cock swelling inside her. — My prey. My wife. Mine.

She came first, her pussy gripping his cock, her moan soft against his shoulder, and he followed her, his cock pulsing deep inside her, filling her with his warm cum, his groan low and satisfied.

They stayed tangled together as the sun came up, his cock softening inside her, his arms around her.

— Best game we ever played, — she murmured.

— Wait till next time, — he said. — I have ideas.

She shivered, delighted, and pressed closer. The killer could come back anytime. She would always run. And he would always catch her.