Page 47 of Morsel

“Fine,” I say. “Sue me because I won’t eat you. I’m doing this for you.” My voice is biting with frustration. “Cutting you off?—”

She spreads her legs, widening her stance, and the image of blood dripping down her thigh fills my brain. The menstrual lining. The fresh blood. My cock is hard, and my drive to end our relationship leaves my body.

No. I can do the right thing.

I turn away from her. “This is for your own good!” I shout.

She puts a hand on my back. “I trust you. Isn’t that enough?”

My head spins. She trusts me?

No. We’re going too fast. Ending this is the right thing to do. It’s not just about protecting myself from prison; I’m also protecting her. And if I want a future with her, then we have to take a break right now until I can better control my cravings.

I race into the master bedroom. “I stabbed your cervix?—”

“The doctor said it was barely a scratch. I didn’t even need stitches. Trust me, you didn’t do anything. I’ve done worse with a dildo.”

My muscles tense. A sex toy can do more damage than I can? Why does that bother me?

“Come on, Kent,” she whines.

Fury undulates inside of me, the master of this fucking puppet show. I hate that I didn’t actually damage her pussy, but I can choose to keep her safe now. I grab her head, her black hairs twisting through my fingers. Even as pain wriggles in my skull, I keep my expression blank. I don’t want her to misunderstand anything I’m saying right now.

“You don’t get it, do you? I want to eat you,” I say slowly as I stare into her deep, black pupils. “I want to eat women. I can’t do that to you or you will die. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says as she tears herself out of my hands. “You can’t tell me what to do. I can make decisions for myself, and I trust you to keep me safe.”

She bites her tongue, and tears fill her eyes, but there’s an emptiness to her expression, like she’s forcing herself to feel bad, to feel something, anything at all, for me. For us.

“Come on, love,” she says, her words quivering. “We can do this. What we have is rare. I need you. I need you for my?—”

The water in her eyes is like the bathwater at the art gallery. It’s physically real; at the same time, it’s a performance.

I don’t want to hurt her. I swear I don’t. Not emotionally nor physically.

But you do want to hurt her, my brain says. You do. You want to watch what happens when she sees you rip her nipple from her breast and swallow it like an oyster.

“I’m not a cannibal,” I whisper. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to her or to myself, and I guess that’s the point. Our whole situation is fucked. “You can find another muse. But this, Mona? Whatever this is”—I point between us—“this has got to stop. Someone’s going to get hurt, and I’d be devastated if you?—”

“What if I want to get hurt?” she says.

My dick palpitates, but my mind stays on track. “I don’t have to do this,” I say. I repeat it over and over again while she follows me to the kitchen. “I don’t have to do this. I don’t. I don’t have to do this. Control yourself, Kent. Control yourself. You don’t have to do this?—”

My morals fight for the upper hand, but my brain screams until it’s all I can hear: Why stop now? Why stop here? Why can’t you give her what she wants?

What if it’s her choice?

“You want to eat me, don’t you?” Mona asks.

I freeze, my spine frosting with ice. I face her, meeting her dead on. There’s pain in her black eyes, and I should feel sympathy for that, but my gaze wanders down. Past her pink lips. Down to her breasts. Her juicy breasts. There’s so much potential in those small sacks of fat. And down further, there’s her soft belly. She’s got so much to give, but I know myself.

I want to eat her, but I refuse to do this to her.

“Mona,” I plead. “Try to understand that I’ve held back with you, and you’ve been escalating at a pace I’m not ready for.” I rub my temple and try to change my tone as if this is what I want. “This isn’t right. Humans don’t eat humans. We’ve got brains to tell us right from wrong. We’re smarter than this. We know the consequences.”

“Are you leaving me?”

A single tear runs down her cheek. My hand twitches by my side, desperate to wipe it from her face. To taste it. To savor the salty sweetness of her sorrow.

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