Page 63 of Turn That River Red

I don’t care when he grabs hold of his bloody cock and presses it against my entrance, his eyes fluttering closed and his lips parting. I hold my breath, squeezing my hands into fists, and when Ambrose slides his full length inside me, I sob with pleasure, all the nerves in my body on fire.

“I thought I’d never get to feel this again,” he sighs, rolling his hips against me. His belly presses against mine, the blood hot and slippery between us. “This perfect human cunt.”

“You’re not human,” I gasp. “You’re the Deceiver.”

“Well, I’madeceiver, certainly.” His mouth latches onto mine, pulling me into another hungry, desperate kiss as he rolls his hips against me to fill me over and over with his hardness. “And a killer. A monster. I don’t deny any of those things.”

“You lied to me,” I moan, clutching at his hips. His wound doesn’t seem to slow him down at all. He thrusts into me as hard as he did last night in the bunker, striking so deep inside my body that I see dots of light in my vision.

“I know. But I’m not lying now.” He kisses down my chin to bite and suck at my neck—it hurts, a little, but it feels good, too. Just like everything about him. He plunged a knife into myheart as surely as he did his own belly, but I can’t feel it anymore. All I feel is the pleasure of his cock inside me, of his bloody skin grinding against my clit, his teeth sinking into the delicate skin of my throat.

I’m going to come for him. I feel the certainty of it building into a pressure in my core, and I grind up against him, desperate for my release.

He doesn’t give it to me, though. Instead, he pulls back and gives me another terrible, manic grin. And still he’s thrusting into me, the muscles in his body tensing beneath his tattooed skin. He looks exactly like the devil of my nightmares, the devil that Madelyn said would devour me if I disobeyed Reverend Gunner.

And heisdevouring me.

But it isn’t the horror I thought it would be.

“I’m showing you exactly what I am,” Ambrose says softly, sliding his fingers up through my hair. “And you like it, don’t you? You like what you see?”

I moan because he’s right and because I’m on the precipice of my orgasm.

“Answer me.” He pulls hard on my hair, and I don’t have to answer with words because my body does it for me. My orgasm explodes outward in a rush of feverish pleasure, and all I can do is let out a string of whimpering, desperate moans. Ambrose never stops fucking me, even when the heat of his cock almost feels too much to bear. His face twists up, and he bares his teeth and rasps, “Was that a yes? You like what you see?”

He’s fucking me harder than should be possible with the wound in his belly. We’re both drenched in blood. But all that seems to matter to him is drawing a single word from my lips.

I stare at him, my gaze unfocused: this monster who destroyed my life. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and the most terrible.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Ambrose roars and slams so deeply inside me that pain bursts in my core, just for a second, like a kind of dessert after the dinner of my orgasm. Then he draws back, pulling out of me completely. I feel his seed leaking out between my thighs, as thick and hot as his spilled blood.

For a moment he stays like that, his arms braced against the couch, his sweat- and blood-soaked hair falling into his eyes. I’m too afraid to move. But then he lifts his gaze to meet mine, his expression unreadable.

“Give me your hand.”

“What? Why?” My fear brightens, and Ambrose runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes boring down into me.

“Told you I’m not going to hurt you.” He grabs me by the wrist and pulls my hand up to him?—

Up to the bloody patch on his belly.

“No!” I cry out instinctively, afraid he’s going to make me hurt him more somehow. Ambrose laughs, hard and cruel, and presses my hand to his stomach.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m feeling. His shirt is soaked with blood, and I can feel the slow rise and fall of his breath and the faint ripple of his muscles contracting beneath his belly’s softness. But then I realize something’s missing.

He isn’t cut.

I gasp and jerk my hand away. Ambrose grins and slumps back on the sofa, his arms draped over his knees. He looks like the demon he said he was—a vile, gore-soaked monster.

“You were cut,” I whisper.

“I was.” He shifts around, stretching out beside me, and pushes up the ruin of his tank top. “But I healed up fast.”

“That’s impossible.” I shake my head, my fear sparking through me. “That’s—Isawit. I saw the knife go into—” I gag on the words, and Ambrose reaches over and tucks my hair behind my hair, leaving blood streaked across my cheek.

“It did. Hurt like shit, too.” He runs his fingers down myarm to circle them around my wrist again. I’m too confused, too frightened, to try and fight when he pulls my hand forward and presses it once again to his belly. “There’ll be a scar. Feel it.”

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