Clutch

I work inside him, feeling for that special spot. He grunts, and moans, his hands claw at my back, fists bunch in my hair.
His breath is hot on my neck, sour in my lungs, as I press closer.
Some mystics call sex the little death, believing that the blankness you feel afterwards is a precursor to the soul's flight from the body. I'm looking for the big death, though. My knife comes out, swaddled in gore. He sighs again, at last, his last.

Three more to kill.