Solange moaned. She groaned in pleasure, called him her man, told him to do it harder, told him it was wonderful, he was wonderful. Said if she only knew, she would have let him before, let him anytime. She bucked and tensed, screamed as she came. “You beautiful creature,” he panted. “I had no idea.” She sighed. “So much pleasure.” He closed his eyes, went back at it, intent on his own pleasure. She reached under the mattress for the knife that Reynaud had given her, brought it up, and slashed his throat.
