Page 86 of The Art of Obsession
Then, I fall upon her, breathing heavily against her neck as she squeezes, milking my cock. Coiling my hand around her neck, I yank her mouth to mine before she can protest. She doesn’t fight me.
“Cal?”
“Hmm…”
“I’m ovulating, aren’t I?”
“Mmm…yes, you are.”
Her breath catches, and she stiffens. I tilt my chin up to read her expressions, finding her wide eyes, but they are lost. She looks right through me, and I recognize her internal battle, how she’s undoubtedly talking to herself, to Cherry. I smile warmly when she flicks her eyes to the side, knowing she’s looking at the figment of her imagination.
“What did she say, Everleigh?” I brush strands of her dark hair away from her eyes.
Training her silvery gray eyes on mine, she blinks, then confesses, “Cherry says ‘If I get pregnant, do I get to name the baby Gothic Revival?’”
I chuff a laugh but cup her cheek as she flushes. “When ourdaughteris born, you may name her whatever you wish, Little Quill.”
She threads her brows. “How do you kn?—”
“Because I said so,” I harden my voice.
It must be a girl. It must be a daughter who will be the imprint of her beautiful mother and not carry the weight of the majority of my genes. For Naomi. I don’t give a damn if I’m projecting. It will be a girl like Everleigh. All that is good and pure and authentic. Our daughter will redeem me—even if I’m not seeking redemption. It’s a fool’s errand. Wishful thinking. But I will still wish.
36
Now we’re starring in some kind of BDSM revenge opera
Chapter Playlist:
“Blood” – My Chemical Romance
“Blood Sport” – Sleep Token
“Total Eclipse of the Heart” – Exit Eden Cover
“I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” – Dark – Tommee Profitt
EVERLEIGH
I wake slowly,my head heavy and spinning. A fog-like haze clouds my thoughts. My body is sluggish, but something pulling tight against my skin forces my attention back to reality.
Ropes.
And pressure in my ass—ugh another butt plug.
I’m suspended in a hogtied position, my arms and legs bound in an intricate, beautiful pattern that presses into my skin like a second, unyielding layer. My wrists and ankles are pulled together behind me, the tension keeping me arched, my chest thrust forward. A gag stretches across my mouth, soft but firm.
Acheron.
I blink hard, clearing the haze enough to see him standing before me. He’s wearing a new mask as haunting as the last—glossy black with surreal droplets of blood cascading from the eyes, and encrusted rubies glinting in the low light. He tilts his head, brushing his knuckles down my cheek, and I shiver.
Yes, he is Acheron now. He’s only Cal when we’re alone.
“Good morning, my little masterpiece,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and rich, like velvet wrapping around my frayed nerves.
He’s wearing a new suit with a cape as usual. But this one has gold embroidery, intricate threadwork along the vest and jacket.
I try to squirm, to test the ropes, but they hold me fast and tight. The position is humiliating, yet I can’t ignore the strange pull of curiosity—and arousal—that stirs deep inside me.
