Page 33 of Grave Love
“Please,” she rasps in a hoarse voice. “Kill me—”
And her body contorts in pleasure and she gasps, her come squirting out of her like a fucking geyser. I clutch her throat again—not enough to knock her out, but enough for her tofeelit—and she gags, choking on me, twisting and fighting. As my fingers massage her cunt, pressuring her from the inside, she relents, letting me take her throat, melting into me.
The pleasure ceases, and she moans. Tension lifting from her shoulders. Another forced orgasm.
Our breathing settles. I angle myself to the side and lean on one elbow. Her chest steadies, her face glistening with sweat. A hint of a feeling grows inside of me, like the embers of a dying flame.
There’s no reason to be proud of her. I’m not. I tell myself that the only thing I’m feeling is pure fucking selfishness in finding whatever this is.
Because Ren is what I need right now. She isn’t like my first, but my dick loves gutting her all the same.
I rise from the casket, my boots landing on solid ground again. Ren’s shirt is drenched with sweat and come. The air reeks of sex and booze, the champagne oozing out of her pores. She’s dripping from both holes.
One day, some asshole will lie in this same casket, and they’ll find their eternal sleep on top of our come stains.
The thought makes me smile.
Ren studies me, trying to decipher my amusement. To understand herself too. Her brows relax, signaling that she understands enough. She’s not fighting me or what we have anymore. Still, she still looks away and blushes in shame.
Then she faces me again, her eyes full of need. Still so fucking full of the desire to be hated. As if that’s the only affection she’s ever known.
And maybe it is.
Perhaps her masochism is a coping mechanism. A way to survive. The will to come breaking through the surface of her desire to die. A way to find promise, even as she struggles to stay above water.
I don’t know if my assumptions are correct, nor do I care. Only two things are certain: we all die, and Ren will diefor me.
I zip up my pants, then offer her my hand. She stares at my empty palm, a question in her eyes, as if she knows there’s another deal we’re making. As if she’s afraid of shaking hands with the devil.
Eventually, she takes my hand, using my stability to help find her balance. For the first time since I laid her in the casket, we stand on equal footing. After pulling up her leggings, she zips her hoodie up over her wet shirt. The cotton jacket is loose, swallowing her whole, and she seems so fragile like that. Like the world could devour her in a single bite.
I won’t let the world conquer her like that. I’ll be the one to consume her entire world.
“You’re not a very good corpse,” I say with a dull expression. Anger flicks through her eyes at the insult, and with that, a smirk prickles my lips.
“And you’re not a very good killer,” she snaps.
I grab her by the throat and shove her against the wall, a rack of caskets rattling next to us. I tease her neck with my fingers, knowing that soon she’ll yearn for my fingers around her throat, just to know that I can make her come. That I own her every orgasm until her dying breath.
“I’ve killed three,” I say. “You will be my fourth. And when you take your last breath, you are going to wish you could use it to thank me for giving your cunt meaning.”
She blinks, her eyes glossy again, and it’s obvious webothwant to go at it again just from those words. Ren probably has no idea that she’s a physicalandemotional masochist, nor that I absorb more power over her in every single fucked up thing we do. Call me her sadist. A hedonist. A deranged killer. All of it applies, and yet none of it holds any weight.
In the end, we both have a use for each other.
I let go of her neck, then wipe my hands on my shirt dismissively.
“Your shift starts in eight hours,” I say. I check my phone. “Make that six.”
She holds her neck. The purple and red ovals are vibrant on her skin, even in the shadows.
“Six hours?” she whispers.
I point back to the casket and lick my teeth.
“Sleep it off. That’s what you usually do, isn’t it?” I say. “Drive home when you’re sober and use your grandmother’s makeup to hide the evidence.”
Ren stays in place, unsure of herself. I shake my head with annoyance at her hesitation. Why does she care about sleeping at work when she knows she’s going to die soon anyway?
