Page 216 of Craving Venom

I stop caring.

My orgasm detonates inside me, a fucking riot of noise and violence I can’t contain. My pussy locks around him, spasming over his cock, dragging him deeper.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. You feel that, good girl? You feel how much you like my cock?”

I can’t even nod. My body trembles uncontrollably, pinned between his weight and the door and the unbearable pleasure melting every part of me.

“You’re milking me,” he snarls.

He slams into me again and I scream as he pulls back just enough to watch my face and see my body quake around him.

Then he roars.

It rips from his chest like a beast breaking loose and I feel him spill inside me as his cock pulses with every spurt, flooding my cunt so deep I feel it coat my womb. His hips grind as he comes, riding it out and chasing every last drop.

When he finally pulls out, I sob at the sudden, aching emptiness, the loss punching through me harder than I expect. His come spills from me in thick, wet trails, sliding down theinsides of my thighs. I try to close my legs, but Zane’s hand is already there, catching our combined juices before it can escape. Through the blur of my tears, I watch him, watch the way his fingers shove between my folds, two of them plunging inside without hesitation, stuffing the heat and slickness back into me, refusing to let a single drop be wasted.

“I’ll have you know,” I pant, breath still ragged, “I’m not ovulating.”

“Then I guess we’ve got time to practice,” he grins.

Zane finally lets me go and my body collapses, slumping against the cell door until my bare ass hits the cold concrete floor. He steps forward, sliding the door shut with a harsh clatter before strolling across the cell. I watch through half-lidded eyes as he crouches down, opens a cooler tucked under his bunk, and pulls out a bottle of water while I try to gather whatever pieces of myself are still left.

My clothes are scattered with my camisole half under the bed and my bra long gone. I tug the tights back on first. It’s a struggle. Every movement makes me wince, but I manage it. My camisole sticks to the sweat on my back as I pull it over my head. Just as I reach for my jacket, a vibration from the water pipes draws my attention and when I look up, Zane is standing only a few feet away.

Water glistens at the corners of his mouth as he drinks, some of it spilling past his lips. And then—fuck me—he pours the rest straight over his face.

Cold water streams down his jaw, over his collarbone, across his chest. It follows the ridges of his abs, knowing exactly where to go, as if it was made to worship him too.

The snakes on his body gleam under the trail of water. They seem to breathe with the rise and fall of his abs. He looks like something savage. Something holy desecrated and remade with violence and lust.

I tear my eyes away from him.

If I keep staring at the water trailing down those abs like it’s being guided by sin itself, at the way those muscles pop like they’re trying to escape the cage of his skin, I’ll do something stupid.

Like fuck him again.

On my terms this time.

And that’s the most dangerous thought of all.

I reach for my jacket with fingers fumbling through the fabric and the moment I begin to stand, I feel his presence before I even see him.

Zane towers over me with his body casting a shadow beneath the light as he holds out a cold bottle of water.

I take it, and our fingers brush.

“You’re going to say you got turned around looking for the visitation desk.” I unscrew the cap and drink while listening to his cover story. “It’s on the east block. You’ll tell the guard you were looking for Processing Room 12, and someone pointed you wrong.”

“Processing Room 12?”

He nods once.

“That puts you near solitary, but not in it. You’re just a curious little intern who doesn’t know shit about wing layout. You give them that line, they’ll walk you right back to the main hallway without questions.”

My mouth opens to ask why but I stop myself because I don’t want to know.

If I start asking questions, I’ll stay, and I can’t stay.

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