Page 78 of Crawl
She puts pressure on her lips, her tongue flicking over the sensitive skin on the head of my cock. Her eyes gaze up, holding me. And at that moment, I know I’m never going to kill her. I want to let herlive.Fuck everything—I want to see how much of a fiery pistol she is in her eighties. I want to see her skin get saggy with those blotchy tattoos. I want to kill some spritely twenty-something and fuck her over his dead body, like we did with her stepdad, even when it’s too hard for us to fuck like animals. And I’ll do anything to make sure that she lives to be that age, even if it kills me.
I push her shoulders, moving her off of my dick, and she leans back on her palms. The lace tattoos mixed with the hair on her pussy make me salivate. Fucking hell, she’s not wearing panties, and her pussy is already soaking the pavement. And that pisses me off even more. She knows what she does to me, and every damned day, she uses that power against me.
And like a man on a leash, I fall to my knees and crawl to her. I’m a fucking slave to my queen.
“Spread your legs,” I order. She moves her thighs wider, and I reach between her legs. Her arousal pools under her like an insatiable slut, the liquid silvery-blue in the moonlight. A drop of blood runs down her cheek, then her neck, and I wipe it with my finger, licking it up. It’s metallic and salty, her sweat and blood.
I use her arousal to lube up the knife’s handle, then I jab her pussy, not caring if it hurts or feels good, but she writhes her hips like she’s in heat, getting so damned into it that her pussy grip takes over, making it hard to control the blade. I adjust my hand, getting a better hold on the knife, but the blade cuts into my palm. I’m the one fucking her with the knife, and somehow, I’m the one who’s hurt. She’s dragging me down with her.
“You love me, Cash,” she pants through each word. “You love me so much that it terrifies you.”
My skin spikes with needles, but I keep fucking her with the blade, deeper and deeper until I hit her cervix and the blade gashes my palm. But I don’t stop.
“If this is love,” I growl, “then it’s going to kill us.”
And I can’t take it anymore.
I rip the handle from her cunt and throw it to the side, pulling her into my lap, squeezing her as if I’ll never have her again. The grit from the asphalt smeared with our come and blood washes over both of us, and my hands skim her body, knowing that this is it. There will never be another time for us. If this is love, then this is the end, because neither of us is going to survive the night.
So I don’t care about holding back anymore. I hold her body, entwining my legs and arms around her, and I press my mouth to hers, my tongue so deep in her mouth that she surrenders, giving everything to me. Letting go. And it feels so fucking good. Her mouth on mine. Her teeth, her velvet tongue. I want to remember this. Her mouth tastes sweet, like a honeyed wine she drank with dinner, the mellowness of her saliva rinsing it out. The huff of her nostrils tickles my skin. Her heart pounds into mine. She takes my breath away with that kiss, and I hold her, wanting to hurt her and fuck her and love her, to do everything and anything that I can to show her that she’s right. I don’t know how or where I went wrong, but just as much as she’s mine,I’mhers.
Then she freezes. Her tongue goes placid in my mouth, like a dead fish floating in the water. Energy builds in my veins.
She’s shutting downnow?
I break the kiss, then examine her. Her face is blank. Empty. Like she’s not here anymore. And I know what it is: her stepdad must have kissed her like this. And that makes her a shell of herself.
I’ve never been in control when it comes to Remedy.
I push her off of my lap and stand up. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, blood from my palm smearing my skin. She sits there, her eyes blank.
“Get up,” I demand.
Her eyelids hang low, but she doesn’t move. What is she doing?
“Stop messing around. Get up.”
I stare at her, but she’s still petrified. Have I done this to her? My chest tightens, pain churning in my stomach. I pull her to her feet. Her dress is still bunched around her hips, but her eyes are glassy and vacant. She’s gone.
I don’t know if it’s the kiss or the fact that I threw away the knife. But I’ve finally broken her. And I hate it. Every single second of it.
And I hate that I feel this way. Because I shouldn’t care. I should just leave her here.
But I can’t. And that enrages me. Because this isn’t enough. I have to let her go.
“Leave,” I say. “Run away from here. Never think of me again.”
Finally, her pupils shift, focusing on me. A tear falls from her eyes, and that tear, that single drop—not from face-fucking or passion, but from the fear of the softness, fear of what it means for a psychopath to actually love you, fear ofme—that tear breaks me.
“Why me?” she asks.
I close my eyes, then turn away. Every person wants to believe they’re the chosen one, but I can’t do this to her anymore.
“You were never more than a person for me to frame,” I say. Her lips tremble, and I know it hurts her. It’s ripping me in half, but she needs to go and forget about me. “I got you to kill your stepdad so I’d have your prints on the weapon. You’re a tool. Nothing more.”
She shakes her head, not believing me at first. I laugh, hoping that it twists the knife.
“Why do you think I let you kill him?” I ask.
