Page 68 of The Art of Obsession
He lashes my ass again and again, painting the skin red, pausing between every few strokes to palm my cheeks. I shiver each time from the contrast of his cool hand.
Rational Everleigh fades beneath the dark, erotic pleasure consuming me. I’m squirming, writhing, and trying to grind my clit against the bed.
Oh, Everleigh, you’re going to look like a sinful, little work of art when he’s done with you,Cherry gushes, twirling in my mind.Such a devil. Maybe Lucifer himself commissioned him to brand you until you burn bright enough to light up all of hell!
“I killed him!” Cal finally snarls, slapping the flail down before he mounts me. His dick bulges against my ass, and I moan from the pressure as he thrusts softly against me. “I stabbed him, tore out his heart. It was still beating in my hands.”
My heart races, but it’s not horror that rushes through me. My veins should be icy. Instead, they burn with him. And I’m latching onto his hunger, feeding on it and…his violence. His vengeance.
You’re burning brighter than hellfire now, my dear—no wonder he can’t resist mounting his throne.
Cherry’s hums fill my mind. For the first time, it feels like we’re fusing ever so slightly. Like I’m receiving pieces of her, of my inner psycho until I’d crush the same heart between my fingers—feel the warm blood trickle down my arm.
Yes, his throne. Because I’m the only one strong enough,realenough to hold him through this.
“But it didn’t matter,” he says, his voice breaking as he grips my hips, knotches his crown to my pussy, and drives home. I choke on a scream. “She was already gone.”
With him bearing down on my ass and his thick cock throbbing against the plug, the pressure is unbelievable. He holds my hips, leaving soft bruises on my skin as he thrusts once, then pauses. I moan into the pillow, aching, dying for him to move. It should be impossible. He pummeled my cunt just a short time ago, pounded me raw.
The carved heart rasps the bedsheets, stinging from the motions.
But I want this. He wants my pain. I want his. His torture. His past. Everything.
Instead, he lowers his head to my ear, increasing the pressure. “I held her. I painted her skin with her own blood, made her beautiful one last time. And then…I buried her.”
He pulls out to the tip, then spears me hard and deep, filling all of me. I cry out with each thrust.
Seizing my hair again, Cal yanks it back, twists my head to one side, and covers my mouth with his. Demanding, needing, taking. My back arches so much, the upper half of my body is off the bed, my breasts bouncing with each slam of his hips. I’m squeezing harder than ever, hearing the wet sound of my pussy squelching as he fucks me.
Sweat sheens my body, and my welted skin chafes beneath him as he rocks against me. Hard, slow, strong, deep.
Cal isn’t looking for pity, but I can’t help it.
“Fuuuck, you’re soaked. My good girl gushing onto her master’s cock.”
“Don’t stop, Cal!” I gasp, my double meaning clear.
“I ran that night.” He hovers above my lips, driving into me, fucking me harder. “Lived on the streets, in abandoned train cars. Graffiti became my salvation, my first real art.”
Labored breaths thicken between us. Both of ours.
Do you feel it, Everleigh? The way his violence claims you? It’s like poetry written in blood and desire.
“Would you believe I joined the circus for a time?” he chuckles, slapping the seared flesh of my ass.
Joined the circus? Darling, I bet he was the main attraction. The Devil’s Acrobat, bending bodies and breaking hearts.
A crazed giggle leaves my throat. “Cherry says you were probably the main attraction.”
His hot tongue sweeps along my cheek, tingling the skin. “Thank you for the compliment. No, I was not. But I was the main blade thrower for a time. And I spent a full year training as an acrobat. Knives, ropes, guns…I masteredeverything.”
He throbs inside me, pulls out, and stabs back in. I convulse, clamping down. Anchored to his cock, I cry out as wave after wave of pleasure raids my system until my eyes roll back in my head with light and color flashing to blind my vision.
Not the only things he mastered, Evie. That man is a ringleader in bed, too. Straight up god of sex status.
“Christ, you’re a vision when you come like this with your swollen flesh on display. My own little exhibit.” He traces the reddened marks, electrifying my skin with little currents, raising the hairs.
“By then, I’d experimented with different forms of art,” he goes on, thrusting again. “Perfecting every technique. But Iloved paint the most. Loved the feel of it juicing my hands and dripping down my skin. I spent years with my hands color-stained.”
