Page 91 of Heart Sick

I move my hips in time with his fingers, gripping the edge of the altar in fear my legs won’t hold me up.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he confesses, bending down and licking the side of my neck slowly. “You sing to me, Luna. Your mind. Your taste. Your heart. Every artist needs a muse, and you’re mine, and that scares the living shit out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve become addicted to the feeling. I’ve become addicted to you, and when you leave, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

But it suddenly doesn’t feel like it’s my choice.

“Dutch—”

He doesn’t allow me to finish, however, because now, we both want to forget—just for a little while anyway.

He slides my underwear down my legs and when he coaxes me to spread my legs, I lean my cheek against the cool marble of the altar, surrendering myself to the man who has captured my heart and soul.

Dutch kisses up the back of my leg, before those kisses lead across to my ass. He licks and sucks, his tongue sending my body into overdrive. He doesn’t shy away from kissing every single part of me and when he spreads me wide and licks a place which has me blushing, I shudder and moan at the thought that he owns every part of me.

He grips my hips and encourages me to buck onto his face as he fucks my back passage with his mouth and tongue. Everywhere he touches sets me on fire, and I want him forever.

This is worship as I feel nothing but love through his touch.

As he’s tonguing me deeply, he slips two fingers into my sex. I’ve never felt so full. But I want more.

“Fuck me,” I demand without apology.

Dutch moans, clearly turned on by my aggression. He stands, and when I hear him unfastening his jeans, I brace myself because the first time he enters me always takes my breath away. He doesn’t tease. He knows I’m ready for him.

He grips my hips and slides into me. We both groan because nothing else feels this good.

I hold on to the altar as Dutch commences fucking me relentlessly. It’s what I want. What I need. In this place of worship, we become one. He pulls out, only to slam back into me—over and over again. I love when he loses control this way.

Peering up, I look at the wooden crucifix hanging in front of me. I am desecrating this place of worship without apology and in some ways, the rebellion adds to the pleasure. Doing something bad feels so good, and what Dutch is doing right now feels fucking incredible.

“This gives me life,” he pants, and his comment touches me in ways he’ll never know because I know how much he doesn’t want to live. “Always remember that.”

I don’t know why, but there is an air of finality in his tone.

I remember what he said about needing pain to thrive, and I want to deliver this to him if this is the final time.

Reaching for a small gold crucifix on a pillar, I move my hips, and when Dutch slides out of me, I turn around and hoist myself onto the altar. Before he can ask what I’m doing, I yank off his shirt and with the sharp corner of the crucifix, I slash it across his left pectoral, drawing blood.

He drops his chin, peering at the cut I just created. As blood trickles from the wound, an animalistic urge overcomes me and I follow instinct and lean forward and lick the trail of blood. Revolting to some, but not to me because his blood is mine.

With his blood on my lips, he slams his mouth to mine, kissing me with such longing, I would happily give my life to forever be lost in time. He doesn’t break our kiss when he drags my hips forward and enters me swiftly.

I moan into his mouth because nothing compares to this.

He fucks me with passion and love, and although this is rough and hard, it’s filled with an undying obsession for the other.

He pulls away and yanks my hand toward his chest. “Again.”

I do as he demands and cut his chest, but this time, I score his flesh with my fingernails. He hisses as I scratch over the cut I made with the crucifix, drawing more blood.

The same look comes over Dutch, the one he gets when he gets lost in the music. I bend down and bite his chest, licking away the sting with his blood lingering on my tongue. He sinks into me so deeply, I can scarcely breathe.

His strokes are almost punishing, and when his eyes slip shut, I know he’s composing an ending to this beautiful affair. I can’t sit up any longer and collapse onto my back, but that’s not a deterrent for Dutch. He continues working me into a legless mess.

---