Page 58 of The Art of Obsession
He pushes inside me again, thrusting with a fervor, and the shock of it so intense that I almost forget to breathe. No matter how much I try to fight, I can’t. My body is his to use, to own. I’ve worn fingernail-shaped indents into my palms, the ropes chafing my wrists.
I clench more around him.
My body is betraying me. It’s like I’m drunk on him. Full-body tremors and tingles erupt all over me. Something’shappening, mounting, building, the pressure tightening stronger and stronger until?—
—shiiiiiiiiit! I convulse. Throwing my head back, I cry out from the power of the orgasm ravaging my system, firing up all my nerve endings, electrifying the reward center of my brain, and frying all my rationalities to hell.
Acheron freezes in me, tilts his head with his dark predatory eyes, scarlet pupils glinting, no…gleaming. With a low chuckle, he thrusts inside me again, surging another wave of bliss through me, splashing my body with liquid heat like he’s splattering light and color on a canvas.
“Did you just come on my dick?” he muses, a smirk forming.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I rasp, turning to my logical side. “It’s just a byproduct of?—”
He dives for a kiss, crushing my lips with his, forcing me to open. But for the first time, he doesn’t need to. I kiss him back with everything. He tastes like a sinful deity, like fire and ice, and even…suffering. I can’t deny our connection anymore.
He’s filling me. I only got a glimpse his cock, but the most insane part? The same blood drops he carved into me…they were faint, but the silver scarification is undeniable.
Acheron took a knife to the core of his masculinity and carved his art into the organ.
And he’s not just long, he’sthick. I’d heard of guys like him. They’re few and far between. At the Catholic school I went to, one guy had a twelve-inch dick. His friends would line up willing girls, and Mr. Twelve Inches would judge them, choosing whichever was pretty enough to ride him.
I never lined up.
With Acheron, it’s far more than his immense length.
I saw something. When he faded in the middle of cutting me. So different than how I fade with Cherry where I’m arguing with my inner self and unable to stop those dark, erotic thoughts. No,he went somewhere darker. Like he was seeing a vision of hell. Demons blazed in his eyes. I’ve never felt, never seen that depth of pain in anyone before. He gave me a fragment of vulnerability.
Even with all consent and choice ripped from me, it felt like the greatest gift he could have given me.
I don’t know what to make of it—of him.
He fucks me like he carved me, slow and piercing. His immeasurable muscles bulge with each movement.
“Fucking can’t fathom how irresistible you are,” he says a breath above my lips, pulls out halfway, then thrusts again, I gasp. It’s far too simple with how wet I am, not just with my blood.
When he picks up the knife again, a whimper leaves my throat. My eyes stray to the glass walls, and acid swirls in me at the sight of all the sick men getting off on this.
“Look at me, Little Quill,” Acheron commands, tipping the knife against my skin and carving another blood droplet spilling from the heart. Seated to the hilt, throbbing inside me, he holds my gaze. “I’ll detonate every molecule in your body. And transform your emotions into my mastery. They will see love and hate dance and bleed together. Fuck them all, Everleigh. Because I see you…” he whispers in my ear while sinking his cock in deeper, harder, stronger. “Focus on my movements, my force inside you.”
Oh, God!—how can he say things like that to me? This is the real God of Art. Not the one he shows on a stage.
I can’t help but lose myself in his eyes as he cuts me. Adrenaline and dopamine drown me. I’m caught between the pain of him filling me and the sharp sting of the blade.
I hate him. I love…I hate the way he makes me feel, the way his touch brands me, the way every inch of him inside me is both destruction and salvation. But…but…
God, it feels so good. The pressure grows in me again, swirling in my core like a storm. I can’t stop it. I can’t even try. My body responds to him in ways I can’t control.
Another cut. More blood. This time, he doesn’t dab. He lowers his mouth to my chest and touches his lips to the etching. I flinch, breath hitching at the pain and my blood on his lips. And then, with his eyes like a dark fever, his tongue slowly traces the seam of his mouth.
He’s so transfixed. But he hypnotizes me. Only we exist, orbiting one another. He’s the sun, and I’m the moon reflecting,shiningwith the after light of his art.
The unbearable tension snaps again. The pressure snaps, and I explode, my body clenching around him. I shatter everywhere, the climax surging hot streams of pleasure through my blood. I unleash back-to-back moans as he kisses me.
I feel him—his breath, his heartbeat syncing with me. I can’t pull away. I don’t want to. I kiss him back, desperate, hungry.
“Fuck, you’re flawless!” he says, lifting the knife, and I swallow as he cuts the silk bonds, freeing my wrists.
I clench my hands into fists, but before I can think about fighting him, he touches me.
