Page 90 of Spearcrest Devil

“Shut the fuck up,” she grits out. “You talk too much.”

I push deeper into her, slowly, slowly enough to catch the furrow of frustration between her eyebrows. I lower my mouth to hers, I kiss her parted lips, I whisper in her ear, “Say no.”

“I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

She speaks with surprising sincerity. She’s no longer smirking, and that telltale laughter of hers is nowhere to be seen, conspicuously absent from her mouth and eyes.

“If you hated me, Lynch, you’d say no. You’d tell me to stop. If you hated this, you’d never let it happen. You’d have me dead before you let me do this to you.”

“Stop mistaking lust for love,” Willow says, and I sink my cock fully inside her, in one smooth stroke, hip flush against hers, and her breath hitches. She swallows, throat shuddering, and she says, “I don’t love you.”

I scoop her head up in my hands, I kiss her soft and wet, tongue delving deep, tasting the truth of her words on her tongue, answering into her mouth. “I know.”

I tilt her head back, I kiss her throat, and I suck on her skin right where her pulse is, and I think of the mad rush of her blood in her body, the skeleton inside her, and my mind is one blank, luminouswant.

Raising myself up, I stare down at her, at the pink points of her nipples, at the shallow ridges and valley of her ribcage and belly, at the misty colours of her fading bruises. I look down where my cock is buried so deep inside her, the stark contrast of the dark hair between her legs and the pale hair between mine.

“I don’t have to love you to want you, Willow Lynch.” I look back up at her face, and the smile I give her is sincere. “And neither do you.”

Then I fuck her. Long, slow strokes, exulting in the wet glide, the molten heat, exulting in the shudder of her body underneath mine, admiring with shameless satisfaction the sight of my cock sliding in and out of her. I take my time with fucking her, I kissher gasping mouth and I suck on her neck and I tease her nipples until she twitches underneath me. I take my cock in my hand and I rub it crudely over her clit until her cheeks are flushed the crimson of pomegranates, and then I thrust back inside her, drawing a little cry.

I could’ve fucked Willow Lynch like she was poison, like an animal, like vermin. But fucking Willow Lynch like I love her is a different thing altogether. I couldn’t have fucked anybody else the way I fuck Willow because nobody else could have been as profoundly repulsed by my tenderness as Willow is.

And that’s what gets me so fucking hard in the end. Willow’s cries of pleasure and the way she bites down on her lip every time she utters one. Willow’s eyes clenching shut every time I wet my thumb to work her clit, because she doesn’t want to look at me when I’m making her feel good. Willow’s hands fisting in my bedcovers because she’d rather die than touch me, and the hardening of her nipples whenever I caress them because no matter how much she hates it when I’m soft with her, her body drinks up my caresses like a flower bathed in sunlight.

“Yes,” I murmur down at her when I sense the telltale stiffening of her body, that tremulous arch in her back. “Yes, good girl, Lynch. Come for me.”

She gives me a look that’s pure venom, and I curl my fingers into her waist. I spear into her, burying my hardening cock in the wet heat of her gorgeous cunt.

“Come for me like the good little slut you are.” I flick her with her thumb in a steady rhythm, not too hard, just enough to stimulate that tiny little bundle of nerves that gets Willow Lynch so flustered and flushed in the face. “You deserve this, sweet slut, pretty poison.” She winces at my words and squirms, like my praises are acid rain on her bare flesh. “You take my cock so well. It’s like your cunt was created just for me. I could die from fucking you, Lynch, it feels so fucking good.Youfeel so good.”

She comes like a shock to the system, her hips bucking into my hands, eyes squeezed shut like she’s falling to her death. She comes with a frown of resentment, with her teeth dug into her bottom lip to keep her mouth shut and her throat shuddering over her swallowed screams.

Nothing she does can hide the way pleasure crashes through her, the deep flush in her chest spreading towards her breasts, the clenching of her pussy around my cock like it’s trying to draw me closer. I don’t want to come, not yet, not when I feel so fucking powerful I could snap the sky in pieces with my bare hands, so fucking satisfied I could rip my skin off and roar from the sheer animal elation of it.

But then Willow opens her eyes, and they’re the green of poison, the kind of poison I could die choking on, and there’s barely a distinction between the black pupil and the green iris, and there’s a dark glint in her stare like a shard of black glass, and she breathes, “Fuckyou.”

So of course I fuck myself into her, hard and sharp, rough thrusts, hips slamming into her until she has no choice but to throw her hands up to brace herself up against the dark wood of the headboard.

Through a rasp of dirty laughter, I tell her, “No, Lynch. Fuckyou.”

And I come hard and ferocious, my entire body the black spasming air before the white-hot crack of thunder, my cock buried inside that messy, mouthy grifter from Greenleigh, that fucking glorious piece of shit madwoman, Willow fucking Lynch, I come inside her and I fucking hate her and I would kill for her and god himself could descend from the heavens to take her from me and I would spit in his face because she’s fuckingmineand nothing in heaven or hell could take her away from me now.

39

Mummy & Daddy

Luca

Coram Ridge Manor, withits Tudor architecture, sprawling wings and central clock tower, always reminds me of my old alma mater, Spearcrest Academy. The wrought iron palisades and lines of cedars, the intricate stonework of the façade with its drooping veils of ivy, the skyline of grand chimneys piercing the darkening sky.

The limousine glides up the tree-lined central path up to the courtyard, slowing to a crawl as it joins the cortege of limousines depositing their sparkling package of rich men and women at the foot of the manor stairs.

It’s a dark winter night, but the manor is ablaze with lights, and the courtyard braziers are lit with real fires.

I turn to look at Willow, sitting on the other side of the white leather seat. She’s looking out of the window with her handsfolded on her lap, tapping her wrist bone with the tip of a fingernail. She’s still refusing to tell me who or what she’s after, but whatever it is, it holds some importance to her.

If I were a jealous man, it might torment me somewhat. But I’m not a jealous man. I am, on the other hand, a man who likes collecting information and stealing secrets. As determined as Willow is to keep her business private, I’m equally as determined to find out exactly what she’s after.

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