Page 62 of The Art of Obsession
Everything fades, the fish, the water in the tanks, the sharks. Everything disappears as Acheron starts to move so slowly, tenderly, intimately. That kills me.
“Everleigh Lennox,” Acheron summons me, capturing my chin and turning my face to his masked one. “You will be the first woman, the first person to ever remove my mask.”
The words surge through me like a riptide. What? What is he doing? This has gone beyond everything else—beyond imprisoning me, carving me, and fucking me before those men. He’s not holding power over me or taking power from me. No, this is…he’s giving me power…and his identity.
My fingers tremble as I lift them, and I hesitate. “Why?” I ask softly.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. The scarlet glint in his pupils seems to grow, gleaming like rubies. “You are mine. But for the first time in my existence, I belong to another. I…amyours.” His cock throbs inside me, and there’s a deep pain in his eyes, a layer of vulnerability I glimpsed when he faded as he’d carved me.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly peel back the mask, marveling at how much it molded to his features. I unveil him.
And forget to breathe.
I feel like I’m drowning. My chest tightens, and my fingers tremble as I grip the mask so hard, it leaves marks in my palm. Awe, fear, and something I refuse to name collide within me.
Acheron is devastating—his face is a masterpiece sculpted by gods, sharp and flawless like a marble statue brought to life. High cheekbones, jawline sharp enough to cut bone, and his lips full, sinful, and perfect. But his eyes, are even more powerful, stripping me apart. There’s a depth in his gaze, a storm of emotions I can barely comprehend: pain, power, and something terrifyingly close to devotion.
He is beauty incarnate, but not the kind that comforts or inspires. No, his beauty is a conquering weapon. I hate him. Iloathe him with every fiber of my being. And yet, as I stare into the face of the man who has claimed me, carved me, and broken me in ways I didn’t think possible, I can’t deny the truth.
I’m captivated.
“You will call me Callum,” he commands, pulls out to his crown, then spears me so hard and deep, I shatter all over again, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, biting his skin around my screams.
Is that his name? His real name? I hate how much I like it.
His shredded muscles bulge beneath my hands. My arousal squeezes beyond where we are joined, leaking onto my thighs and into the water as he rams me again and again. Driving his dick into me. Kissing. Groaning. Fisting my hair with his other hand. His teeth cut into my neck.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers in my ear. “The only woman alive who knows my name.”
I’m drowning in his hunger. Everything in me screams to remember this is nonconsensual. I’m sore, raw, burning. But I’m falling into him, wanting more—his beautiful, chiseled body, his cunning, creative mind, his dark heart, his…soul. I touch his chest, his back, stroking down until my fingertips explore his ass. I marvel at the power in his muscles. His breath thunders, and his eyes seem to turn darker, proving how much my touch affects him, thrills him.
Maybe I want everything. Maybe I’m the first person in the world who could ever stake a claim to everything.
“Fuck! I’m going to fill you every night, blow my goddamn load in you,” he growls, gripping my hair and yanking it back so he may sweep his tongue along my collarbone, my chest, and down to my breast to suck my nipple. No, he attacks it. Lips, tongue, teeth.
Not fair. He’s given me several orgasms, and I’m on the verge of another. He knows my body. He takes advantage of my weakness, my craving for him.
This must be Stockholm Syndrome.
Reminding myself once again, dying to get a handle on things, I touch his wound and dig my fingers into the gored flesh, punishing him like he’s punished me.
His jaw steels. His pupils dilate, nearly swallowing those carmine glints. He unleashes a string of curses and?—
—he snaps and does what he swore. Fucking me deep and blowing his load inside me. Hot and feverish ropes of cum fill me. Fear doesn’t overcome me. I’ve taken my pills. I can’t be bonded to him that way. It would be the nail in my coffin.
Acheron…Callum slaps the side of the bath, the wet sound on the marble echoing but not drowning out the sound of his heavy breaths. His lips are too tender as they rub my neck.
“Get out,” I mutter, bucking.
Then his fingers are on my slippery clit, and I hiss deeply. “You will give me another,” he growls.
“No!” I shriek and pound my fists against his chest. “Enough! You’ve turned my pussy into hell. I’ve got nothing more.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
He swipes my clit back and forth, growing my arousal until I’m squeezing around him again, gushing. My fists fall, and I grip his hips. He sucks one nipple, sore and inflamed, and kneads my other breast, leaving marks while tormenting my engorged clit. God, he knows how to punish with unending pleasure.
The pressure comes fast and hard, and I explode. The orgasm splinters me into a million pieces, electrifying my nerve endings. Rapture shoots up my spine and hot euphoria races through my blood until I swear liquid constellations splash my face with unnamable bliss.
