Page 88 of My Lovely Tragedy
Before I can think better of what I am about to do to him—of another piece I’m taking, a piece hewants me to take,I latch onto his throat and suck a mark as he did for me. Pulling on the flesh, swathing my tongue over the coarse hairs, finding velvety smooth flesh beneath. Reveling in the salty tang.
Brooklyn moans loudly into my ear, and it coils around my brain stem with baleful intention. His fingers flex, arms twisting. I grip tighter until he hisses—and that begins the spiral.
With mycorvus’sblood on my hands, staining my clothes, my mouth, and my mind, I devour him. His flesh molds around my teeth, perfectly impressionable.
He screams.
Pushes against me, even as he drags me closer in the same breath.
Wings of knives, slicing me open so I can exsanguinate alongside him.
“Brooklyn,” I murmur. I drag fingers through his hair, wrapping the strands tight around my fist and tugging. “My darling, beloved Brooklyn.” I graze my mouth along his jaw, relishing in the burn of his beard. I pause over his pulse to press my tongue against it. One beat. Two.
Five.
Alive, alive, alive.
“My lovely boy.” Pain hemorrhages between us in every touch, in every breath. His wounds continue to seep, endlessly traumatized, adding to the euphoric misery.
“Perfect,” I whisper, and that draws a whine from deep in his throat. A noise of pain, not pleasure. I frown, but I don’t stop my descent, tasting his flesh. Bared, slickened with sweat and writhing. Pushing up against me.
My head swims at the impossibility of it all. To have him beneath me at all, but like this. Wanting and needing. Taking and asking.
Pliant. Desperate.
Mine.
Every essence of my lovely tragedy.
I pull back at the realization, blinking down at him. Brooklyn’s flushed and glistening, chest rising and falling at a much faster rate than before. His hair is askew, temples damp. Fingers curled tight into his palms, knuckles blanched.
His wrists are still in my unyielding grip, chains draped over the right side of his torso, where they hang off the side of the couch. I follow their path, every trace of crimson and rust, where they bleed into silver. Back up to his arms. Mutilated. Gruesome.
Beautiful.
Our eyes meet in a flash of wild torment. Flayed wide open, names carved into bone. Stained in one another through the rest of this lifetime and the next.
In every universe.
I release his wrists to drag the pads of my fingers down over the links to the wounds gaping. I bury a nail beneath a layer of flesh, just to hear him cry out. But he doesn’t pull away.
I smear his blood. Down his arm, over his hip. My index finger swirls in a small pool of it, just to absorb a little more. Brooklyn watches me as I follow the descent of my hand, streaking more across his torso. And then, I follow the path with my tongue.
He groans and arches, back bowing off the sofa. I curl over him and press a hand to his hip to keep him pinned. He doesn’t fight against it, but I feel the tension radiating at that single point of contact.
I like that.
So, I grab more flesh. Press into the bone that bruised my own. Another mark. Another ache.
More and more until he can’tbreathewithout remembering. Without feeling and knowing I am the one that did this to him—the only one.
His hips writhe as my touch travels down, over his pelvis, snaking across the waistband of his pants. His erection is visible beneath the thin cotton, and it twitches as I draw near, drawing my attention.
I skim my finger across his abdomen again, and my eyes widen, alight with fascination as his length jerks. Just from a simple touch. Inches away.
My mouth pools with saliva as I play with stimulation, reveling in the allure of him. More blood, more touching. Grazing.
Feeling and burning.
