Page 59 of The Art of Obsession
“Mmm, please, I—don’t?—”
But I do.
His hands are everywhere, gripping, touching me with callused fingers from his years of art. They rub my nipples, then pluck them before he lowers his head to pull one into his mouth.
At first, I grip the duvet, fisting it hard, but I can’t stop my twitching fingers from straying to his dark hair. It’s the purest, blackest silk. One tug, one clench of my pussy, and he’s groaning against my breast, suckling it harder, flicking the nipple in staccato strokes of his tongue before circling the hard bud. Like…like he’s painting with the tip of a brush.
The God of Art shifts to my other breast, giving it the same treatment and nibbling with his teeth. I squeeze painfully around him, so close to going over the edge again from my hypersensitive nipples that tug on an invisible cord for my clit.
My fingers stray lower, aching with need to see beyond his eyes. But the second they brush the edges of his mask, Acheron seizes my throat, constricting my airflow in a direct warning. I struggle, raking my nails into his arms.
“Never. Touch. My. Mask,” he commands with a daggered glare.
I nod through streams of acid tears.
He releases me, his hardened gaze softening. And then—oh, fuck! He removes his clothes, one by one. Like a consolation prize, giving me his body instead of his mask. My lips part with the gravity of his scars once more.
The men outside gasp at the art scrawled all over his chest and arms. It roams along the sides of his legs, too.
Acheron dives for me again. I jerk from his lips trailing down, tongue sweeping along my throat until he lands upon the design he carved into my chest. I’m wearing his art, wearing him, forever. He kisses the outline, his mouth gentle against the raw skin. It’s too much, too intimate, too real. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape him.
I’m drowning in him.
He circles his hips, then grinds hard against me.
I go over the edge again. Screaming this time, digging my nails into his strong arms. And he tips his head back with a hearty laughter. The men outside laugh with him at my expense. But Acheron does not laugh like them. He’s cherishing my pleasure. Like my orgasms are a gift to him.
Desire shreds me.
The pleasure is still there, lingering, throbbing beneath my skin, and I want more. I’m as sick as him.
The blade flashes out of the corner of my eye.
Maybe we are so fused. On a soul level. Because a violent heat overcomes me. That fire ignites?—
He’s marked me. I’ll return the favor?—
and explodes! The second he thrusts inside me again, I swipe the knife, grab the handle in a death grip—hoping it won’t be my death—and watch the white shock in his eyes as I stab the God of Art’s shoulder.
He roars. I laugh. And cry. And break down.
Because he’s coming!
“Naughty. Fucking. Gorgeous. Girl!” He thrusts and jerks through each punctuated word, then buries himself so deep in my core and releases hot streams of cum inside me.
That fucking devil!
You go, girl!Cherry squeals, waving her pompoms in a sexy cheerleader uniform.Show him who’s boss! Next time, aim for the spleen—really makes a statement! Oh, wait, never mind. Forget that. But the shoulder, seriously? You’re totally flirting.
I just fucking stabbed him! WhatthefuckwhoamIwhathaveIdone?! He’s going to kill me!
He’s bleeding onto my chest.
Oooh!Cherry thrills, buzzing her wings.Maybe your bloods will mix in this crazy mating bond where you can hear each other’s thoughts.
I blink. Twice.Or maybe it’s just unsanitary on steroids.
Spoilsport. Don’t worry, Evie. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.
