Page 95 of He Sees You
I line up my cock at her entrance, rubbing the head through her slick folds.
She's dripping down her thighs, the warmth cutting through the freeze.
Without warning, I slam in, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
Her pussy grips me like a vice, hot and velvet against my chilled skin.
"Fuck!" she cries, pushing back, her walls fluttering around my length.
I set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, balls slapping her clit with each drive.
The cold air rasps my lungs, but the heat building between us is a furnace.
Snow clings to her hair, her back, melting from our sweat. I reach around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing circles that make her buck. "Come on my cock, Celeste. Milk me dry."
She does, her orgasm hitting like a storm, body convulsing as she screams into the night.
Her pussy clamps down, squeezing me rhythmically, pulling me deeper.
I don't hold back, pounding through it, my own release coiling tight.
But I want more—pulling out, I spin her again, lifting her against the tree.
Her legs wrap my waist, and I thrust back in, the new angle letting me grind against her g-spot.
The bark scrapes her back, mixing pain with pleasure, her nails raking my shoulders bloody.
"Harder," she demands, biting my neck, drawing blood that trickles warm down my chest before freezing.
I oblige, fucking her up against the tree, the wood groaning under our weight.
Her tits bounce with each thrust, nipples scraping my skin, sending jolts straight to my balls.
I shift, one hand under her ass, the other pinching her throat lightly—not choking, just possessing. "You're mine," I growl, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers. "In the blood, in the snow, forever."
"Yes," she gasps, her second climax building.
I drop us both into the snowbank, the powder cushioning as I lay her down.
It's shockingly cold against her heated skin, making her arch and moan.
I cover her body with mine, thrusting deep, the contrast of ice below and fire above pushing us both over.
She comes again, walls pulsing, and I follow, roaring as I flood her pussy with hot cum, spurt after spurt filling her until it leaks out, warm against the snow.
We collapse, panting, the cold seeping in, but our mingled heat keeps it at bay.
Her head on my chest, fingers tracing the new scratches, we lie there—partners in every dark sense.
After we’re done, I carry her to the bedroom and dry her off with a towel, then lay her on the bed where I've imagined her so many times.
The ring catches the moonlight through the window, just like it did the night Patricia died. But now it's on a hand that's killed, a hand that will kill again, a hand that chose darkness instead of having it forced upon her.
"Tell me about tomorrow," she whispers as I undress her. "Tell me how we'll kill him."
So I do, describing each step as I worship her body.
The interception. The paralytic. The digitalis. The staged scene.
