Page 43 of Descent

The way he moves does me in. That grace, carefully restrained power, all indicative of the silent killer that he is. He prowls the deepest, darkest corners of my heart, awakening the beast within me. A howl of delight erupts from my mouth as he snaps his belt open.

My shirt’s done for, my bra too. My pants flew off somewhere in the living room, after my boots smashed into the kitchen, destroying the dishes drying on the counter.

His boots followed, hanging from the light fixture, the other lodged in the bookshelf by the TV.

My fingers catch the edge of the table, then the counter in the kitchen as we barrel through the house. I scramble for purchase, to brace myself so that he can continue to devour my skin, grinding his hips and that knee-wobbling masterpiece of a cock into my center, only his black boxer briefs and my already drenched, lacey thong between us.

So glad I wore these…

Not that I had any idea.

Slamming me back onto the table, Ero eases me backward. My arms stretch all the way over my head, locking onto the top edge of the wood as he straightens my legs directly up and opening them slowly, all the way into a split as he leans over me. A huff of surprise and excitement escape his beautiful mouth, his eyes widening at how flexible I am.

“Oh, that’s?—”

“What?” I taunt.

“Perfect,” he grunts into my ear, sending tiny shockwaves of chills down my back.

All in contrast to the heat of him covering me, feeding into my desire. Ero drags his chest down my front, worshiping every curve of my figure. He traces the lines and shading, his hands never remaining in any one place for long. His eyes and mouth trace swirls along my breasts and sides like he’s taking in every sensation, cataloging every inch of my body.

Soft, feathery, black hair teases down the back of his neck, and I twine my fingers into that unkempt mess. How can anyone look so fucking delicious all the time?

The muscles in his shoulders ripple under faint scars and smoother skin, paler than mine. He’s immaculate in his violent artistry, a tapestry of his prowess.

“Seeing you…” I gasp.

“I know…you too,” he pants, burrowing his nose and lips into my hairline, the base of my neck. “You’re?—”

“Yes—”

“So—”

“Say it,” I beg, I command.

“Painful,” he whispers, sheer agony and longing in his voice. As he says it, he grinds into me again, sending currents of electric fire into my core, his rigid cock pressing firmly against my apex.

Reaching down, I find his powerful girth, gripping him urgently, my fingernails scraping against his back, my other hand frantically fumbling at the strap of my thong.

No more waiting. He’s right. This ismisery.

“Circe…I…” he shakes his head, kissing me again, his boxers slipping to the floor, pale green lace vanishes down my thighs, lost across the room.

“I know. It’s unbearable.”

“Ithurts?—”

“Tell me.”

“—how beautiful you are,” he finally forces out, his fingers lace through my hair, clutching the back of my head, his forehead pressed to mine.

Sweet Aphrodite …

I’m so screwed.

I want to tell him how much I hate how gorgeous he is. How it makes my every fiber scream to be touched by him. The contrast kills me. Rips me apart.

He makes me so fucking mad. His face brings back lancing shocks of our awful past. But he makes melive. He makes me…

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