Page 7 of Morsel

Calm down, my brain argues. She’s just a woman, and this is only a hookup. She just wants to make sure you are who she thinks you are before she reveals herself.

“I came to see you,” I say.

Her sharp words slice through the air. “Try again.”

I grit my teeth. “I came to see your art.”

“That’s nice. It’s not real though, is it?”

She sits up, and more water splashes onto the tile, splattering over my boots. A few loose tendrils of wet, black hair crawl over her shoulders, and her bun is a crown on top of her head. Her eyes are hollow, endless caves carved into the side of a mountain. She’s surprisingly small. Even in the bathtub, you can tell she’s short. A bite-sized woman. Something I can carry with a single hand.

Her small breasts rise into the cool air, the fatty tissue pooling at the ends in tear drops. Her pert nipples pucker, and fuck me, my dick stretches in my pants, ready to suck and bite those pink knobs off until she’s a bleeding faucet.

She tilts the wine bottle, and the red liquid races over her neck and down her shoulders. It fills the divots of her collarbones, then travels down her breasts. The wine is like red rain, mixing with the warm bathwater, and it reminds me of thick, meaty blood mixing with boiling water.

“Be honest this time,” she says. A smirk dances on her lips; she obviously knows what pouring wine over her body does to me, and she likes it. “Why are you here? I want to hear you say it.”

She pours more wine over her body, and each drop is another layer, a marinade caressing her skin, another flavor to unlock against my tongue. I’m falling deeper into her trap.

“To taste you,” I murmur.

“Give me more than that.”

Irritation and lust grow in my chest like a bonfire. This isn’t a trap then; it’s a test. She wants me to prove that I came here for her and our mutual, fucked-up desires. Serious inquiries only. Being here isn’t enough.

“To devour you,” I growl.

“Then eat me.”

I yank off my dress shirt. Buttons rip from the fabric and tap the floor. I stumble out of my jeans and kick off my soggy boots like an eager schoolboy, then I crawl into the bath on top of her. I’m a big man; my body displaces so much water, it splashes on the floor like a waterfall.

Mona grins at me, her teeth sharp and white, as if I’m the one who is going to be eaten alive.

“That’s it,” she says. She grabs the back of my neck. “Now drink me.”

I press my lips to her skin, tasting the wine and salt. Berries and musk and smoke and everything I’ve ever wanted in each of her salty pores. She arches her spine, her cunt pushing into my stomach.

“Bite me,” she commands.

My teeth knick her shoulder, and she squirms.

“Harder,” she demands.

My dick lurches at the command, both aroused by the action and annoyed by her dominance. I bite her until I hear her skin crunch and pop, harder than I’ve ever bitten someone before, and she moans with delight.

“Drink every drop,” she whispers, her voice raspy with desire.

She reaches for my cock in the water. My body heats. Everything under my skin crawls to the surface.

This is it. My first chance with my dream girl.

I can’t fuck this up.

She cocoons me in her limbs, an arachnid about to suck my blood. I’m pulled deeper into the water.

Her words set me on fire. “Eat every piece of me until there’s nothing left?—”

A groan, deep and guttural, tears through me. My cock gushes in the water.

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