Page 64 of The Beautiful Dead

A dark chuckle rumbled through me as I grabbed my switchblade and pressed it to his throat.

His breath hitched. Every swallow, every hammering heartbeat trembled against the cold steel.

Tears welled in his eyes as I drove up into him, grinding so deep he keened. His body sucked me in greedily, gripping me like it never wanted to let me go.

“Would you even remember?” I pressed the blade just enough to slice the thinnest line, a bead of crimson rolling down his neck. “Would you wake up ruined, wrecked, dripping, and wonder how many times I took you?”

He trembled, his fingers clutching at my wrist as if to anchor himself.

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

Every muscle in my body was coiled tight. A raw, aching need surged through my veins like lightning. My balls were heavy, tight against the base of my cock, my orgasm balanced on a razor’s edge.

A sob wrenched from him, his body writhing in my grip, caught between pleasure and surrender.

I smirked.

“Pathetic.”

I pulled him up until he straddled my lap, my arms banding around him, keeping him exactly where I wanted him. My cock drove up into him relentlessly, mercilessly.

“I own you,” I snarled. “Every inch. Every breath. Every thought.”

He whimpered, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks.

“You don’t get to come until I decide. You don’t get to break unless I say.”

His head lolled back against my shoulder, his body limp, utterly consumed.

“P-please,” he gasped.

I ignored him, shifting him higher onto his knees, my grip iron-clad as I fucked up into him, my cock dragging over his prostate with every brutal thrust. His body shook, thighs twitching, his cock dripping onto the sheets.

The sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin was a salacious echo bouncing off the walls.

“I-I can’t?—”

“You will.” I slammed into him, punishing, relentless. My teeth sank into his skin between neck and shoulder to keep him teetering on the edge of fear.

Right where he thrived.

He moaned, head thrashing, body trembling. His breath hitched every time the blade kissed his flesh, slicing anotherclaiming mark—another reminder of my ownership—into his skin.

“Come,” I ordered.

With a broken cry he shattered, untouched, as thick ropes of cum spilled onto the sheets.

I didn’t stop.

I wrung every last tremor from his body, dragging him deeper, further, until he was nothing but a ruined mess in my hands. By the time I was done, he sagged against me, his body wracked with aftershocks, sweat-drenched, marked in crimson.

He was wrecked. Spent. Mine.

My orgasm tore through me like wildfire, consuming, obliterating, dragging me under until I was nothing but instinct and need. I emptied myself inside him, holding him still, making sure he took every drop.

When I finally came back to myself, we were a tangled mess of limbs, sweat, cum, and blood.

Remi looked ruined—perfectly, exquisitely claimed.

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