Page 52 of Entombed In Sin

Beatrix’s lips move, curving into a smile as she speaks. Her voice is pretty, but her words lose meaning as she continues. They blend together, becoming unintelligible. But that’s ok, because there’s something more interesting at play. In her face, lights and shadows are flickering beneath the skin. Both creep into her eyes and pulsate like a lightning storm on fast forward. It’s mesmerizing. Somehow, it enhances her natural beauty.

So focused on the strange occurrence, I don’t see her hand until it’s too late.

It lands in the middle of my chest as she leans forward and brushes the makeup down the bridge of my nose. For one millisecond, time freezes.

I’m not ready for the internal eruption that follows.

Beatrix might as well have shot a firework directly into my ribcage. My body can’t jerk as the explosion that rocks my insides sends my mind reeling through time and space, but I can moan as the blast is followed by a pleasure so intense the fabric of reality shifts, bringing Starr Girl to the very center of it. My dick seems to be unaffected by the paralytic drug. It stiffens behind Beatrix, who’s unaware of the effect her touch is having on me. My body riots, aching for more. My mind, on the other hand, seems conflicted. I want this undeniable pleasure to never end but… she’stouchingme. How is this possible without pain?

Beatrix freezes, surprised by the sound. But she doesn’t move her hand. Her palm radiates heat so surprisingly exquisite that I almost question if I’ve been made from ice with how I seem to melt beneath it. Her brows relax as a small smile splays across her lips.

“It must be the drugs kicking in,” she mutters to herself, then gets back to decorating my face with a brush.

Deliberately, her hand slides up to the base of my neck and then back to where it had originally come to rest. The feeling ofpleasure intensifies. I choke on another moan, and my nerves fizzle with delight.

“Do you like that, Pretty Doll?” Beatrix asks with a giggle.

She moves her hand again, this time stroking it down my abdomen, then back up to the middle of my chest. There, she rubs a singular circle before bringing it to a halt. Oh god… it feels so damn good.Shit. Sparklers are going off beneath my flesh. How fucked up is it that I kind of want Beatrix to stab me with a scalpel and cut me open so I can watch the intense display burst from my chest cavity?

She places the brushes aside and pulls out mascara. Carefully, she coats my lashes.

“Such pretty eyes,” she murmurs, taking great care not to stab in my eyeball. An effort I appreciate. A blush creeps up into my cheeks at her compliment.

Starr Girl caps the mascara and places it with the rest of the makeup beside her. She lifts a polaroid camera up next and a flash of light momentarily blinds me. A second later, a square film prints out. She grabs it and waves it in the air.

“We’ll let that develop and then I’ll put it on the wall with the others,” she mutters as she puts the film and camera down on the table, out of sight beside me.

Wait! I struggle to open my mouth to demand that she let me see it. Have I turned out as pretty as the corpses on her wall? Unfortunately, my mouth refuses to cooperate.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks, leaning over me. One hand comes down to brace herself on the table beside me. She gets so close that our noses almost touch and the tips of her braids tickle my collarbones. “I never had dolls growing up. One of my stepfathers would buy them for me, but to get them he’d make me…” The tips of her braids tickle my skin as she gently shakes her head, dispelling the past. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I would hide, and that meant no dolls for me. But I’m glad I don’thave anything to compare you to. You’re the best doll a girl could ask for, Knox.”

With that, she reaches forward with both hands and runs her fingers through my hair. Her nails rake against my scalp, and I groan behind my lips with how good it feels. My eyes roll into the back of my head as she repeats the motion.

“You like that, Pretty Doll?” she teases. Her hands come to rest on my chest where another explosion of pleasure overpowers nearly all other senses. I cry out again, as best I can. “Of course you do. You deserve to be adored. If I had friends, I would show my doll off to them. They’d be so jealous.”

Damn right I deserve it. I’m the prettiest fucking doll there is. I beam up at Beatrix as her words really sink in. She means them. I can feel the truth in them.

“People were jealous ofmelast night,” she continues. “Can you believe that? I don’t think anyone has ever wished to be me before, but I saw how people were looking at you on the dance floor. They couldn’t keep their eyes off you.”

Something about her words irks me, but before I can place why, all thoughts are ripped away as her hands slide over my chest again. This time, she doesn’t stop as she explores my body. Her hands slide over my shoulders, then her fingers trace the veins in my forearm.

“How can veins be considered attractive?” Starr Girl asks softly, each one with a featherlight touch. “There must be something wrong with me.”

She might as well be using a branding iron rather than her fingers. Except instead of leaving burn marks, her soul is reaching out and weaving itself with mine—connecting the two of us. I’m extremely aware of how her thighs are tightening around me. I groan louder. Is this turning her on? Damn it. Just the thought of her taking so much enjoyment while playing with my body sends a shiver of absolute pleasure through me. I chokeunder the intensity and groan with frustration as the throbbing of my dick becomes painful. It’s a very centralized pain that is starting to become too intense to ignore.

I swallow hard. I thought I could last an hour under any conditions. I lived with the Hunt twins, for Christ’s sake! There’s nothing worse than the things we put each other through. The torment is a testament to our devotion to one another.

Yet now, under Beatrix’s tightening thighs, heavy breathing, and agonizingly sweet hands, I think I may have found a limit I might not survive. I’d underestimated Beatrix Starr. Now I’m on the precipice of losing my sanity, or what little I have of it.

Touché, Starr Girl.To-fucking-ché.

18

SAGAN

Ihaven’t gone to a funeral in… Well, ever.

My mother’s body was taken away by the police, and Thatcher and I dipped out of town before we found out what happened to it. For a while, I was sure they’d turned her to ash and then tossed her in the trash. Though now I’m not so sure. There’s about a dozen boxes of unclaimed ashes in the storage room of Bright Starr. Apparently, that’s what funeral homes do—they keep strangers because ‘what if’ someone remembers to finally come, and pick up the deceased?

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