Page 49 of Ma Petite Mort
“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “Still trembling. They’d all watch you fall apart for me if I let them.”
I bite my lip and nod, eyes fluttering shut. “Let ‘em. Let the gods see what you do to me.”
Two fingers slide inside, thick and sure, curling just right. I jerk forward with a gasp, clutching at his shoulders like a sinner gripping the edge of a cliff.
“Fuck—Bjorn?—”
His name leaves my mouth like a plea and a prayer, and he rewards me with a grunt, pressing his palm firm against me while he works me open, deeper, rougher, slower.
“Gonna say my name like it’s sacred?” he asks, dragging his mouth along my jaw.
“It is,” I pant. “It fucking is.”
My breath stutters. My legs shake. I’m pinned in his lap, straddling a monster in human skin who treats my body like scripture. Like gospel. Every motion is a sermon, every thrust of his fingers another reason to believe.
“You’re close,” he says, lips brushing my temple. “I feel you tightening. Like you’re trying to pull me into your bones.”
“Because I want to,” I whisper, nails digging into his back. “I want you inside every part of me.”
“Good girl,” he growls, the words thick with pride. “Then give it to me. Come for your god.”
My body obeys.
It isn’t a scream—it’s a sob, a surrender. My whole body locks then shudders violently, hips twitching, chest heaving. I fall into him, letting him hold me, ground me, claim me. His free hand cradles the back of my head as I ride it out, shaking in his arms like the last hymn of the night.
He doesn’t pull away.
He waits. Patient. Proud. Until my breathing slows and my eyes flutter half-shut in blissful ruin.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his lips.
One by one, he licks them clean. No hurry. No shame. Just dark, greedy satisfaction.
“Divine,” he murmurs.
I collapse against him with a wheezy laugh, legs still twitching.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe. “I’m gonna need a nap and a new pair of thighs.”
His chest rumbles with something close to a laugh. I don’t hear it so much as feel it, the vibration under my cheek where I’ve curled against him like a cat that found fire and decided to love it anyway.
And for a moment—just a moment—we’re still. Covered in blood. Surrounded by death. But safe. Anchored in each other like we’ve both found home at the center of the storm.
He hums.
And then?—
Footsteps.
Wet, squelching, too-light-for-comfort footsteps.
“Well, well, well,” Johnny sings. “Look who’s getting in one last round of worship.”
We turn as he saunters into view, shirtless and grinning, dragging something grotesque behind him like it’s his latest toy. A ribcage. Still bloody. Still twitching.
“For you, my queen of carnage,” he says, tossing it like a bouquet at my feet.
“Aww, Johnny,” I coo. “You shouldn’t have. No, really. You shouldn’t have. Where the fuck did you get this?”
