Free Goal Line (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 7) by Bianca Sommerland

closer. She wanted the sensation, and the marks to remember it by.
    “There might not be a scar at all, Oriana.” Sloan grinned as he picked up one of his long, razor-sharp knives. “But I’ll try to leave something for us all to admire for days to come.”
    Without being asked, Max secured her ankles, both with the cuffs permanently fixed to the end of the bed—which they’d discussed ahead of time so she wouldn’t make any sudden movements—and his own hands as she’d asked so she’d feel him close. Sloan had a good idea of how she moved with different sensations, so it was unlikely that he’d cut her without meaning to even if she jerked with a prick of the blade. Either way, he seemed to have prepared for any possible outcome.
    He started with the wax on her breasts, prying off little pieces, letting the sharp tip of the knife shallowly pierce her flesh. A sting on the side of her breast. Liquid heat. The skin freed from the wax felt cool in contrast.
    Another tiny sting, more heat, she closed her eyes to soak in the sensation. Whips and canes could leave bruises, even break the flesh, but it wasn’t the same as the delicate kiss of the knife. She was aware of the pain, only, not the way she would be with a paper cut or a burn. The perception was entirely different because Sloan hurting her was so closely linked to pleasure.
    When her breasts were free of the wax, she opened her eyes and watched Sloan set down the knife. He pulled off his gloves and put on a pair of fresh ones. Then he used a cotton pad with clear liquid to clean her upper thigh.
    “You’ve impressed me, pretty girl.” The tone of the evil kidnapper had returned, but Sloan was softening it with the endearment. The game was a careful balance, one that worked because they’d all been together long enough that not much was needed beyond basic negotiations before a scene. He was still playing the bad guy, but enough of his real self came through for her to feel safe. “I’ve never found a bitch I wanted to keep, but you’re fun to play with. Will you cry if I cut you?”
    “No, I’ll be quiet.” She’d read some amazing books where captives fell in love with their captors. She was already in love with Sloan, but to play her part, she could toy with the idea of doing anything to survive and beginning to…feel something more for the man who might spare her if she pleased him. “I want you to keep me. I won’t fight you, I promise.”
    “Hmm.” Sloan pressed his hand to her thigh before picking up a scalpel, the only tool he’d laid out that he hadn’t used yet. “Are you sure about that?”
    All the trust in the world couldn’t dim how frightening the scalpel looked in his practiced hold. She reasoned that this wasn’t his first time wielding the exquisitely sharp tool. The blade was taped to control how deep it could cut, and the result would be more like the shallow cuts he’d made on Max’s arms than the deeper ones he’d made on his own. She braced for the pain as he touched the knife to her thigh, his stroke as light as it would be if he were painting with a brush. She could feel the blood well up. Then the cool dampness of an alcohol swab gliding over the cut.
    Pain, acute and intense; almost like the alcohol had been lit on her flesh and flames seeped under her skin. She tossed her head, fighting to bite back a moan. Her core clenched and her eyes teared, not with pain, but with pure ecstasy. The blade returned, followed by the alcohol, and she lost herself to the fiery bliss. Most wouldn’t understand why she’d want this, but she’d given up caring about any who would judge. She was exposed to her men, taking all they could give her, knowing they, at least, accepted her needs.
    Max had tightened his grip on her ankles. Sloan gently covered the cuts on her thigh with a sterile gauze bandage and compressed the hot spill. The scalpel hit the tray with a clang. He pulled off the gloves with his teeth, keeping one hand