Page 121 of The Blood we Crave

That I am weak regarding her. The one thing I was made to do, and I can’t do it. All because of her.

My eyes meet hers, hunger drowning inside of them, but always, there is a sense of winning shimmering inside of them.

“I see you. The only one who knows you,” she breathes. “And I know you’re a liar. This is our destiny.”

It’s the last she says before I feel her hands grab the back of my neck with one hand and the front of my jacket with the other, and she slams our mouths into one another.

And I let her. I let her because there is a part of me that knows she’s right. That she has always been right. Even while I denied myself of her, refused to acknowledge her existence out of fear of this exact moment.

Pure, addictive intimacy that only blooms in her wake. Of course, she could grow inside of me, blossom like a winter rose through the freezing cold and unforgiving ice.

Living things do not survive in me. I’d been built to destroy them early on, but she, Miss Death and Decay, she thrived in all the places others feared.

Thrived.

Teeth and tongue as we battle each other. She hums against me, forcing me to swallow her pleasure, pouring all that malice and words we won’t say into the other’s throat. I drag the knife from her neck down the front of her body.

Her teeth sink into my bottom lip, biting hard enough that I taste metallic on my tongue. A groan rumbles in my throat as she sucks on the flesh, drawing my blood into her own mouth.

Painting her insides with me.

We are a web of tangled limbs and bruising touches. She tears my jacket from my shoulders, ripping at the fabric, yearning to touch me, to be beneath my skin.

Surface isn’t enough for her. She wants below everything I’ve built on the outside. Under my flesh, within the walls of my head. Nothing I give her will ever be enough.

Several moments of suspended time, with my hands in her hair, tugging at the wild curls. My fingers pull apart the seams of her clothing. The warmth of her mouth sears into my mine, cherries drowning my senses.

I urge myself farther against her small frame, grunting into her mouth as I feel her exposed nipples poke into my chest. Desire coats every instinct, my control a passing thought. All I can think about is touching her.

My entire life, I have wanted to be clean. Painstakingly clean.

And all I want, all I crave, is for her to make me dirty. Bare the inside of her soul to me so that I can rip it to pieces if I want. Know every inch of her, dip my hands into her and be covered in everything that is Lyra Abbott.

It’s morbid intimacy. Possibly the only kind I’m capable of, almost sick in its nature. I think of how I ache to be inside of her. I want my cock shoved between her thighs while my blood drowns her throat, and our bodies try to forge into one.

My hand gropes her breast, twisting the sensitive bud between my fingers, making her cry out as she bows her back. I trail my tongue across her neck, exploring all the places that make her tighten.

The knife in my left-hand twitches, begging for her. With lazy movement, I drag the tip down her naked upper body, watching goosebumps prickle until I’ve reached the apex of her thighs.

Her hands tug at the bottom of her skirt, pulling it up to her waist, showing me the pair of lavender panties beneath. My cock strains against my pants, pulsing at the sight of red streaming down her milky thighs.

I turn my hand, pressing the blade into her leg and sliding it gradually so she can feel the bite of metal. She secures her nails to my shoulders, burrowing into the muscle.

Her brows scrunch up, a beautiful look of anguish resting in the lines of her face. I attempt to ease up, but she holds me in place, shaking her head in a panic.

“Wait,” she pants. “I can take it. Keep going.”

A smile forms on my lips as I lean forward, pressing a fluttering kiss to the pulse in her throat. I can feel the warm liquid on the side of my hand.

She is so very good, willing to take every cut.

“You bleed so pretty for me, pet.”

And I mean every word.

I mean it so much that I don’t question the way my knees give out and I let myself fall to my knees so I can watch as the knife sinks into the softness of her.

Using my free hand, I hook the back of her knee, lifting it up in the air and widening the gap between her thighs. My fingers dig into her, hoping to leave bruises from my touch, imprinted there for years after I’m gone.

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