The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

10. Acheron is my Apocalypse

10

Acheron is my Apocalypse

Chapter Playlist:

“Battlefield” – Svrcina

EVERLEIGH

I come to thanks to something hard and hot circling the inside of my mouth.

Horror rips through me. I shriek and wail, unable to do anything but clench my fingers due to this chemical haze.

Acheron is shoving his cock in my mouth.

The tip tests the entrance of my throat. His knees are on either side of my head, but no pressure on my chest. I hear the rocking of the bed, the momentum of him gripping my bed frame as he plunges in and out of my mouth.

“Welcome back, Little Quill,” he says, voice deep and husky. “Fuck, your mouth is hot paradise. Suck me down. Yes, swallow as I go deeper, and it will be easier for you. That’s my girl…” he praises me when I obey.

Sweat and my tears drown the blindfold, but I focus on swallowing and sucking, keeping my teeth as far from his length as possible. Impossible to breathe, but I know he knows what he’s doing, judging by his previous “breath play” remarks.

I can feel the brawn of his thighs, only the barest upper flesh while the rest of him is still dressed in his red suit.

My inner muscles squeeze, aching for something to fill me. My pussy is still soaked and swollen, my skin sizzling, my blood scalding. His tongue was like a hot blade, inflicting unbearable pain and pleasure. All my nerve endings come alive as I suck this man, this erotic stalker who has invaded my life.

He’s everywhere.

He’s big, Evie. Really big.

I can barely acknowledge Cherry right now. Not when he grips a handful of my hair, fists it, and shoves deeper. Denial rears inside me, swearing that I can’t possibly like this, want this. It’s the first time a cock has ever been in my mouth. My fiance and I…we never did anything like this.

Acheron pulls out, and I gasp for air. “That’s right, Everleigh. Breathe for me. And brace yourself,” he says right before plunging back inside. “Damn, I love those tears.” He pauses at the back of my throat and brushes a gloved finger along my cheek, collecting the wetness. “Like fucking razors under my skin. Making me need you more, need to possess you and protect you. My quintessential masterwork. The spirit in my veins.”

The words seep into my mind. They’ll make a bed there and haunt my thoughts.

He slides his cock forward, pushing into my throat, and I swallow, battling every urge to gag. His heat surrounds me. I feel him all the way to the base of my throat. I can’t fathom how he can go deeper, but he does! He has to be longer than ten inches.

When I seize the moment, follow my instincts, and stroke my tongue along the underside of the velvety skin of the well-endowed muscle, Acheron curses and pulls harder on my hair. My scalp cries, but I flick my tongue upward and suck harder.

“Fuck, just like that, Little Quill. My beautiful portraiture.”

I hate what his praise does to me, but I need it. I need the control that comes from using my tongue on him, stroking and sucking, and hearing his labored breath. He thrusts harder, his muscles bulging along each side of my jaw. I’m giving away pieces of myself, but he’s also giving himself to me. The twisted and most disturbed power exchange I can conceive of.

He pulls out again. I gasp as he touches his thumb to my lower lip. “Give me your breath, Everleigh Lennox. Know how much I need to use you, overpower you. Because it will make me hunger for you more, make you all mine until I show you my darkness.”

What kind of darkness does Acheron have? His performances, his themes are black, bloody, and intense. Such thundering crescendos while his persona would dominate the stage, dark and commanding. Just as he is now, dominating everything in me.

Even now, it feels like he’s pulling me into one of those performances where the ropes lift him—long swathes of fabric that coil around his body like serpents, pulling him upward. He glides through the air with an eerie grace, his cape swinging as his body twists and turns as if gravity bends to his will. In one hand, he holds a paintbrush—no, a weapon—and in the other, a palette of colors so vivid they seem to bleed into the air around him. They are bound to his arm, so he may hold the rope in one hand and the blade-like brush in the other.

He pounds my throat, and I sink into a daydream. No, a memory of his performance...

His strokes are violent like pools like blood on the canvas. I inhale deeply when he pulls back. Just like the crowd inhaling, on the edge of their seats.

He swings out over the audience, suspended by the ropes—just like I’m suspended—and with a flick of his wrist, paint sprays in a burst of black and gold, splattering across the canvas, surreal and raw.

“Fucking torturing me!” he exclaims in the moment, a possessive growl rumbling from his chest.

A firestorm tears through my blood.

The music in my memory from that performance shifts, growing darker, heavier like his themes—sin, death, the search for light.

I am his light. I am his muse.

His strokes become more frantic, his body twisting and contorting to the beat.

His cock now does the same. He’s treating this like an art form, too.

“Nothing but this, Everleigh. Stroke by stroke, breath by breath, feel the masterpiece I am creating in you. Give it to me! All your emotion. Your pain. Your pleasure.”

He releases my hair and cups my left breast, and I rise, hissing, gusting deep as he rubs the leather along my nipple. Overwhelmed by the arousal and the memory of the first performance I saw floods my consciousness.

Paint dripped down his arms, smearing across his chest, his face, until he looked like a living embodiment of his art—raw, messy, utterly captivating.

The canvas is no longer just a backdrop; it’s a battlefield.

I am his battlefield. And he’s conquering me.

He pulls out all the way, captures my slippery clit, lowers himself to just a breath above my lips, and commands, “Come with me.”

I gasp, jerk, and buck. Everything in me narrows to his words. I let go of everything. Everything but the vision of him painting, dragging his palm like a streak of blood and fire.

I explode. The orgasm sends me spinning, spiraling like his body on those twirling ropes as he finishes.

Acheron snaps. With a savage snarl, he releases streams of his cum all over my chest. Our climaxes surge together, nearly touching the edge of heaven.

We’re both gasping when I fall, coming down. My pussy squeezes, and I want nothing more than his shaft buried inside me. Like I’m on my knees, begging and pleading as I tremble in awe of him.

The crowd is silent, spellbound. No one moves. No one blinks. Or makes a sound, afraid they will break the spell he’s cast. I can feel the tension in the air, thick and electric, as if we’re all teetering on some great revelation.

Acheron is my Apocalypse.

This shouldn’t happen. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. He’s a murderer. He could be a serial killer. He killed because of me tonight. Guilt shreds my heart lining because Jake still didn’t deserve to die.

“My perfect panorama,” Acheron praises me again, holding a tender hand to my cheek.

Instinct has me leaning into that hand, and I swallow the knot of revulsion in my throat that says I’m betraying everything I believe in. But his breath is so heavy. And he tips his brow to mine. No words. We just exist in this moment. Perhaps tomorrow…I will wake up and find this is all an erotic dream—like the kind I read. But it’s too real, too raw, too bone-deep, and heart-splitting for it to be anything else.

When he crushes his mouth upon mine, so tender and yearning, I open beneath him. Only for me to realize he’s dripping his salty, masculine cum into my mouth. He pinches my nose to ensure I swallow. I clench my eyes shut below the blindfold and do as he wants.

“Good girl,” he whispers, then kisses me again and slides the blindfold from my eyes. At some point, he put his mask back on. The darkness could never hide the sight of those surreal blood drops streaming down the white mask, twisting patterns of dancing runes along the brow and cheekbones.

He flicks his tongue against mine, and I whimper, more desire rising within me. But it bows to the growing haze, promising I will soon fade to unconsciousness. Acheron tilts his head, changing the angle and depth of the kiss, holding me here with the strength of his jaw.

Once he parts, my dark stalker artist says above my lips, “Sleep, Everleigh. I will return to you tomorrow night. Tonight, you understand the lengths I will go to to keep you, to make you mine. You will know it more when you wake.”

I crash.