Page 122 of The Blood we Crave

“Do you see what the sight of you bleeding does to me, darling? What it makes me want to do?”

My eyes focus on the next cut, just below the first horizontal wound. Blood seeps from the cut, and for once, I don’t deny myself of her. I place my mouth on her reddened skin.

“Thatcher…” She moans at the contact.

Whines, whimpers, and sighs are expelled from her lungs. All the while, my tongue laps up the blood pouring from her leg. I drink her down, feeling the tangy flavor drip down the back of my throat, filling me with her.

I know now that no matter where I go or what happens, she is always in me. Existing inside the spaces no other human has dared to go. Within the spaces of my ribs, flowing through the veins surrounding my heart.

When her hands descend to my chest, her palms pushing me back towards the cold floor, it’s partially because of the haze of her scent that makes me so compliant. It’s all I can blame it on as I let her crawl up my waist.

The knife clatters against the hardwood floors, ringing in my ears. My palms rest behind me, keeping me upright as she settles into my lap. Her mouth moves along the ridges of my throat, nipping at the skin.

She’s feral in her movements, frantic in her need to feel me. My eyes are glassy with lust as I stare up at her, at her long, bouncing curls that stop just above her pale breasts.

Miles of smooth skin and warmth perched on my waist. Nimble, animalistic fingers pull at my belt, unlatching it from its notch and working on my button and zipper.

My cock strains, throbbing as my chest heaves. No one has been this close. Gotten this far. I’ve never wanted it this badly, never needed to feel it this much.

She’s turned me into a ferocious animal, reverted to base male instinct, driven only by the thought of those delicate fingers wrapped around my shaft and the sight of her cunt dripping from my come.

Sex has always been this elusive concept that everyone raved about and acted like hormonal rabbits for. There had been nothing appealing to me about having anyone that close to my body.

I lose a groan as her warm fingers rub against the base of my cock, gently curling around and pumping me in her hand. Electric shocks hum along the back of my spine, my mind dizzy.

I’d been touch deprived my entire life, both because of my own actions and my father’s parenting. I’d gone so long without it, my body didn’t know how famished I was for it until Lyra started touching me.

Robbed of contact, of the bond you create through physical touch. Drained of oxytocin the entirety of my life, so long I doubt I’d ever been held as an infant.

But now, I am a starved man.

I’d gotten a taste, and suddenly, my body remembered just how deprived it was.

Something wet runs along the head of my cock. When I glance down, I find Lyra’s hand coated in a red liquid that she’d swiped from her thigh. With slow, nervous strokes, she paints me.

Up and down my shaft, the slippery feel of blood makes it easier for her to move faster. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, watching her mark me.

I snatch an arm around her waist, keeping one behind me flat on the floor to keep me balanced as I lift my hips just a smidge so that her hand has no choice but to move and my cock is tucked against her panties.

“Pet,” I hum, brushing my lips across hers, “let me see your cunt. Show me how wet that sad little pussy is. Show me so I can make her cry for me.”

Dark, wicked lust swims in her eyes, so far gone in this moment that I know she would bow and bend to my every command. Power like I’ve never felt before surges in my veins, knowing all of her is mine to control.

Lyra’s fingers pull the material of her underwear to the side, putting her pink cunt on display for only me to see. My cock leaks as I press myself into her, the liquid heat pouring out from between her legs consuming me.

I use the hold on her waist to rock her hips in tune with mine. My shaft slips through her folds with ease, a mixture of blood and her lust aiding me.

Everything about her seems so small in my arms, knowing if I impaled her cunt on my length, it might split her in two. That my hands can bruise her with little strength. And she would take every single bit of it.

A whimper slips from her mouth, her hips grinding against me in messy strokes.

“More, Thatcher. I want more. I want all of you.”

My cock twitches, on board with the idea of burying itself inside of her walls and never coming back out. But my self-control, it’s still there, clinging to the last shreds of sanity.

She can never let me go if I do this. She will be in danger for as long as I’m a target, and she won’t care.

If I do this, she’ll be mine. Only mine. Regardless of my ability to care or love, she will never belong to another man or woman. I will own her, mind, body, and soul.

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