Page 168 of The Beautiful Dead

I screamed. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

My walls rippled around him, choking his cock. His fingers buried in my hair, he yanked my head back.

A vicious snarl against my ear. “Who do you belong to, Remi?” He pulled out—and fucked back into me, brutal, unforgiving.

My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

“Tell me.”

The sound of skin against skin filled the room, the slap of flesh, our heavy breaths, the obscene slickness of him ruining me.

“Remi!”

A demand.

“You!”

The moment the word left my lips, he shifted. A foot planted next to my knee. A new angle and he fucking wrecked me. Pounded into my prostate, beating it into submission, breaking me open, fucking me raw

Domino released my head, and it hit the bed with an audible thunk, unable to hold myself up anymore. I was liquid fire. Sensation. Drowning in dark seas.

A blade against my spine. His voice like smoke and sin. “I’m going to make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

Excruciating pain that I welcomed with open arms flowed through me. His switchblade, slicing slow, deep, deliberate. Fresh blood seeped from the wounds he was carving into me.

His cock rammed into me, fucking through my overstimulation, shoving me higher, further, deeper.

I blacked out.

When I came back, I felt his fingers tracing the marks carved into my back.

“W-what?”

My ass was soaked in blood, spit, sweat. He coated my skin with my essence, his fingers biting into my hips.

His pace increased. He wasn’t just fucking into me. He was dragging me back onto his cock.

My orgasm slammed into me like an electric current. “D-Domino…please…I-I…need…” I whimpered.

My cock throbbed. My heavy balls drew up tight, hugging the base of my shaft. My mouth opened, drool pooling onto the sheets.

An animalistic roar tore from his lungs. “Come!”

My body obeyed it was his to command. Thick, hot ropes of cum lashed against the silk sheets. My vision went white. I floated in the darkness.

I came to lying on top of him. My Domino. Arms folded across his chest. Cheek on my hand. Legs splayed, framing his hips.

I felt wrecked.

Not broken—remade.

Like my bones had been replaced with mush, liquid, honeyed submission. Still not entirely back from wherever he’d sent me.

His fingers traced my back, skimming the skin he’d carved open. Soft. Slow. Reverent. It was different from the countless little nicks, the intricate network of wounds and worship.

This one—I felt it.

Deeper. More than pain.

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