“Open your damn mouth, Cignette,” he orders. Hell, the way he says my name – it’s like dragon-fire on my chest. It sears through me; it thaws my damn rationality. I relent and part my lips, and immediately, he loosens his grip on my throat. “Good girl,” he purrs. “Now, pull your tongue out.” I do, and feel myself get wet when he flattens the switchblade and runs it over my tongue. He starts from the tip, then pushes it up further, all the way to the inside of my mouth. “You like that,” he says. There’s no question in his voice. “Who fucking knew.” He pulls the blade out and flips it around,
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