Page 34 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Her hand works the base of me in tandem with her mouth, twisting, stroking, squeezing just right, milking every gasp and shudder she can tear from me. Her lips are stretched around me, spit and water mixing, dripping down her chin in the filthiest, most beautiful mess I've ever seen.

Every stroke of her tongue, every wet pop of her lips pulling back only to sink down again, feels like a countdown. And I want to stay like this forever—but fuck, I’m already unraveling.

I groan, deep and raw. “Don’t stop. Please, Calista—fuck—don’t stop.”

She sucks harder, tongue flicking just under the head, lips stretched wide around me. The sound alone—the wet, obscene rhythm of her mouth—drives me right to the edge.

My body tenses, every muscle locking up.

“I’m gonna—” I can’t even finish the sentence.

I explode in her mouth with a hoarse, guttural moan, hips bucking forward as the orgasm rips through me. Instead of pulling away, she takes it all—every drop, swallowing around me, never breaking eye contact.

When I finally sag against the wall, panting and wrung out, she pulls back slowly, licking her lips like she’s tasting the last of me.

She stands, steam swirling around her like smoke.

“You’re not in control,” she says, voice low and wicked.

And fuck, she’s right.

Because I’d give it all up for her to do that again.

Chapter 15 – Calista

I step out of the SUV, the ivy bite of the wind hitting my face the moment I’m on my feet. Veldenport Docks look just like I left them—grim, gray, and industrial, like my worst nightmare come to life. But this place kept me safe. At least for a little while. The smells of diesel and saltwater fill my nose. And then there’s that unsettling feeling that always seems to loom here.

Lazaro steps out beside me, his boots hitting the tarmac with a certainty that makes me grind my teeth. He moves like he owns the world—no hesitation, no fear. Two other cars pull up behind us, and his men start fanning out. Ethan Brown walks ahead, moving with the kind of quiet intensity I’ve come to expect. Crivelli and a few other Virelli enforcers take their positions around us. The whole scene feels too controlled, too orchestrated, and I can already tell something is off.

I keep my head high and my face straight, trying not to show the unease creeping up my spine. The wind tugs at the hem of my coat, but I hold steady. Not here. Not now. But it’s hard not to notice how sinister everything feels, even in the middle of the day.

Lazaro glances at me briefly, his eyes flicking over my face. “Stay close,” he mutters. “This doesn’t feel right.”

I nod, my eyes scanning the shadows between the towering stacks of shipping containers. “No shit,” I reply, voice low and sharp. My instincts are already screaming, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. There’s a strange sensation about this place that feels like a trap, but I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the smell of the ocean, laced with decay, or the way the wind feels too sharp, too eager. Whatever it is, my gut says this isn’t just a routine meet-up.

We walk deeper into the dockyard, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the thick layer of salt-ridden mist that clings to everything. Lazaro’s eyes are always moving, constantly assessing, like he’s waiting for the moment when things go sideways.

A figure steps out from the shadows ahead—one of Lazaro’s men, moving quickly toward us. He’s got that anxious look in his eyes, the kind of look that says things are already slipping out of control. He murmurs words to Lazaro I can’t quite make out, but I feel the change in the atmosphere instantly. Lazaro’s face hardens. He gives a short nod, his body language sharp, precise.

I hate it when he gets like this—hostile and distant. I know it's just how he is. Why am I even expecting anything different? But deep down, I know I’m starting to.

We continue forward, my steps in sync with his, though my mind’s a thousand miles away, already plotting out what’s coming next. The Virelli men fan out behind us, securing the perimeter, as Lazaro keeps his gaze ahead, unblinking, unreadable.

Then, out of nowhere, two figures emerge from the shadows—De Corsi men, smug and swaggering, walking with the kind of arrogance I can’t stand. One of them drags a wooden crate behind him, the metal hinges scraping against the concrete with an unsettling screech. I can feel my pulse spike, but I keep my composure. I know this game, this dance of power and intimidation. They think they have the upper hand. But they have no idea who they’re dealing with.

The man with the crate steps forward, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. “Don De Corsi sends his regards,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Thought you’d appreciate a reminder of who she truly belongs to.”

My breath catches, and everything goes still. I know what he’s talking about before he even says it. I can already feel the rage rising up in me, but I keep it in check. I’ve been here before. I’ve faced worse than this.

Lazaro doesn’t hesitate. His gaze is detached, like he’s already calculated the outcome of this little encounter. “Get that box open,” he commands, his voice low and unyielding. The De Corsi men exchange a glance. One of them steps forward, producing a crowbar from his belt, and starts prying the lid open. The sharp screech of wood splitting fills my ears, and I find myself holding my breath.

The box creaks as the lid is lifted, and my anxiety spikes. I step forward, my heart pounding in my chest, and I lean in just enough to catch a glimpse of what’s inside.

And then I see it.

My whole body goes numb.

The stench hits me first—a thick, metallic tang that makes my stomach churn before I even see what’s inside. My hands tremble as I peer into the box, and there it is—my brother’s severed head, staring up at me with wide, lifeless eyes. Blood pools beneath him, thick and congealed, coating the bottom of the crate in a dark, sticky mess. His mouth is frozen mid-scream, the flesh around it contorted in a grotesque grimace, the expression forever locked in horror. The sight sends a visceral jolt of pain through my chest, squeezing my heart until it feels like it's about to shatter into a million pieces.

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