Page 49 of Grave Love
He grabs my wrist, holding me still.
“Tell me what you want,” Blaze growls, his voice ringing through my chest. Dirt cakes his face and coats my skin in a light powder. We’re covered in filth. “Tell me what you fucking want right now, dead girl.”
I pant. I know exactly what I want.
“Make me come,” I cry. “Then kill me with your cock inside of me.”
He smacks me between my legs and grabs my cunt like he owns it. Because he does. He owns me.
“You couldn’t bear to die without coming first,” he says. “You’re such a selfish little corpse.”
He grabs the top of my hair, lifting me out of the grave, shoving me onto the leveled soil beside the hole. On my hands and knees. My nails dig into the earth, greedy for it, and he smacks my pussy from behind. The pain feels so good that I don’t know what to do with myself.
I want to come. I do. I fucking do.
He moves my panties to the side, and his hands are clean somehow. Warm. Naked. Without those leather gloves. A new set of tears wells in my eyes. I don’t know what it is. Is it relief?
Then I realize that he wore the gloves—and made me keep my panties on—to protect me from the dirt. Even if he killed me in the grave tonight, he still planned to use me.
And it’s so damn comforting.
“Corpses don’t get wet, do they, love?” he says. “But you? My willing victim. My unlucky number four. You get wet knowing that I want to fuck you as much as I want to kill you.” He buries his mouth against my ear. “If you didn’t get wet for me, you know what I’d do?” He digs his fingers into my pussy, another finger penetrating my ass, finger-fucking both of my holes. “I’d stab you in the gut and fuck the blood out of you.”
I moan, the pleasure mounting in my chest. It’s unbearable. The disgust for myself and for him and the overwhelming need I have to take everything he has to give me. To let go. To give myself over to that need to come. And when his palm squeezes my throat and his fingers knead my pussy, everything inside of me constricts and I twitch on his fingers, and it’s there. I can touch it. Taste it. It’s everything I want.
And I don’t hold back anymore.
“Yes,” he howls. “Give me that sloppy cunt!”
I dive into the abyss, into the nothingness, the little death inside of me expanding into a void, a black hole devouring everything around it. I am nothing but pleasure and pain. Nothing but visceral emotion. Nothing buthis.
Before I can catch my breath, Blaze twists me around and shoves me onto my back. The coarse dirt scratches my skin, ripping me away from the pleasure. I don’t care. I stare into his pale eyes, seeing myself in him.
He kneels on my chest, his muddy black pants resting against my tits. He unzips, unleashing his engorged cock, so full of blood it looks purple. Veins wrap around it, contracting, threatening to come. He fists his length, an animalistic hunger in his eyes as he glares down at me. Bloodshot. Salivating. His throat contorts, and he smacks my cheek until I open my mouth. A string of spit winds down, drawing toward me. It misses my mouth and hits my chin, and he uses his free hand to rub it all over me. His palm is smooth as it massages my skin. The dirt and saliva blend together, caking me with mud. He spits again, and this time, I move, catching it. I swallow it down, tasting him. Swallowing his salt. His bacteria.Him.Tasting everything he gives me. Savoring it.
“Take my fucking come,” he growls.
And I do. I open my mouth, panting, eager for it. His cock pulses, the head expanding with pressure as thick white fluid pours from his tip, over his fist and onto my lips. I lick it up—the dirt, the saliva, his come—and I’m ravenous. I need all of it. Every single drop.
A deep sigh splits into the frenzy as I finish eating his come. Blaze’s expression is icy and calm now. The insects hum, and the frogs’ cries suddenly filling my ears. It’s like they started singing again, but they probably never stopped. They were always there, calling out to us. I just wasn’t listening.
Blaze disappears inside of the house. The lights never flicker on. A minute later, he returns with a wet washcloth and water bottle. He offers them to me.
I rub my forehead and smear the dirt around my skin. I don’t understand him.
“You just buried me alive,” I say, hoping he catches the subtext, too tired to ask my real question:Why do you want to clean me?
“If I wanted to kill you tonight, I would have,” he says. He nods at the wet towel, and I start using it to wipe my face. The hard granules of dirt dig into my cheek. Eventually, the air cools my clean skin. “When did I ever say that I’d kill you if my dick wasn’t inside of you?”
My cheeks flame, my pussy pulsating at the thought. He knew I would freak out about being buried alive, didn’t he? How many times had I fantasized about the prospect before him? How is it that he knows me better than I know myself?
Maybe it’s not the dying that matters. Maybe it’s the partbeforeit, where I can see him. Where he seesme.Where nothing exists except for our primal hunger for each other. A connection so deep, we can feel it, even after we’ve come. Even now.
Perhaps Blaze will still feel me after I die.
He hands me a bottle of water, then gestures at my throat. “Wash. Drink.”
I gargle the fluids in my mouth, then spit into the dirt. Blaze studies me, almost like he’s as curious about the situation as I am. Asking himself why he’s taking care of me if he’s going to kill me anyway.
