The Art of Obsession (Savage Stalkers #1)

25. Should I start planning the wedding?

25

Should I start planning the wedding?

Chapter Playlist:

“Poison and Wine” – The Civil Wars

“Clarity” – Zedd ft Foxes

“Haunted” - Evanescence

EVERLEIGH

Acheron doesn’t lower me into it. Instead, he sets me at the edge and gets between my legs, spreading my thighs.

Multi-colored fish ripple through the water all around us, the sharks cutting through the water with a power I seem to feel.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I touch my fingers to his chest in a weak attempt. “There’s blood and semen down there.”

He grips my wrists, forces them down to my stomach, and hardens his eyes. “I will have your blood, Everleigh.”

I open my mouth to protest again, but he sweeps down and buries his face in my pussy, cutting off all my speech. Desire pulses in my veins, and I arch my back, lean back on my elbows, and gasp, clenching my eyes as he eats me out. It’s the only word for it. He’s ravenous, licking and tonguing my labia. He delves deeper, curling and drinking with a fervor like he wants to taste every drop.

How can he not care that I stabbed him? Now and then, I catch him wincing, but he hasn’t tended to his wound. Obviously, he’s very comfortable with blood…like it’s a drug to him.

For the first time, I want to know the meaning of the blood, what it means to him. The dark secrets of his past.

Acheron pushes his tongue through my opening, and my whole pussy shudders. My nerves sing. My libido grows wings. After the pain of him fucking me and the three back-to-back orgasms, it seems impossible. A thick finger slides into my center, edging his tongue, and I gasp and grip his black, velvety hair, arching my back more, lifting my hips. I want more.

His teeth scrape my pubic lips. My cheeks turn redder, and my nipples harden and itch with need. The second I lower a hand to my breast, he smacks it away, grips the flesh, and kneads it. Never losing his focus. A moan escapes as he plucks my nipple, rubbing circles around the bud with his thumb. I tip my head back, my hair sweeping the marble floor.

Sealing himself to my heat, Acheron torments me, licking every crease, kissing all my warm, wet flesh—wet with our cum and my blood. He lets me yank on his hair…as if he’s giving me permission to hurt him.

“Fuck, you drive me mad, Little Quill,” he growls against my cunt, the sound vibrating deep into me. “Can’t fucking get enough of you. You can’t fathom how intoxicating this blood is…” He licks me from ass to cleft, determined to take everything.

Like an addict, he feasts on me. With every second, I’m spiraling into his hell, hips jerking with need.

“Acheron, please!” I beg, my whole center flaming. “Bloody god!”

He slaps my breast lightly, then pinches my nipple, a stinging pain of a warning that he controls my pleasure. I clutch my throat, deeply inhaling and exhaling, hoping to trigger my release, but I can’t. Only he can. He caresses my breasts, curling and stroking his fingers along my nipples like rapid brushstrokes before massaging my thighs.

Fire courses through my veins, burning my blood. I’m bucking, demanding my orgasm. Finally, he draws my distended clit into his mouth. All my muscles soften. I suck in the deepest breath and silently pray as he sucks the swollen bud, fondling my breast and curling his thumb around the nipple.

“Fuck, you taste like a goddess. I am going to live between these legs and eat you out every night,” he vows darkly.

Just when I think I might die from all the liquefied heat setting my pussy aflame, Acheron stabs three fingers inside my drenched core, flicks my clit, and tongues circles around the flesh. I explode! All my inner muscles pulse and squeeze as I erupt into shimmery ribbons like colorful stars shooting through my system.

I’m still coming, still soaring when Acheron slams me down on his cock, impaling me, ripping away my breath. He gives me more and crushes his mouth to mine in a searing kiss.

One hellbound thrust, and another climax rips through me as he fills me, his girth swelling and inflaming my inner walls more than ever. I grip his shoulders, breathing through the bliss rupturing through me. The water is hot, drifting steam all around us. Too far above him, the water only laps at my ass which he grips, fingers bruising the flesh that is still sore from his spanking.

There’s so much of him. Everywhere. He buries himself so deep, he seals me to him. Invading me. Conquering me. And the pressure and the pleasure ruin me like an unstoppable storm.

Everything fades, the fish, the water in the tanks, the sharks. Everything disappears as Acheron starts to move so slowly, tenderly, intimately. That kills me.

“Everleigh Lennox,” Acheron summons me, capturing my chin and turning my face to his masked one. “You will be the first woman, the first person to ever remove my mask.”

The words surge through me like a riptide. What? What is he doing? This has gone beyond everything else—beyond imprisoning me, carving me, and fucking me before those men. He’s not holding power over me or taking power from me. No, this is…he’s giving me power…and his identity.

My fingers tremble as I lift them, and I hesitate. “Why?” I ask softly.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. The scarlet glint in his pupils seems to grow, gleaming like rubies. “You are mine. But for the first time in my existence, I belong to another. I…am yours .” His cock throbs inside me, and there’s a deep pain in his eyes, a layer of vulnerability I glimpsed when he faded as he’d carved me.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly peel back the mask, marveling at how much it molded to his features. I unveil him.

And forget to breathe.

I feel like I’m drowning. My chest tightens, and my fingers tremble as I grip the mask so hard, it leaves marks in my palm. Awe, fear, and something I refuse to name collide within me.

Acheron is devastating—his face is a masterpiece sculpted by gods, sharp and flawless like a marble statue brought to life. High cheekbones, jawline sharp enough to cut bone, and his lips full, sinful, and perfect. But his eyes, are even more powerful, stripping me apart. There’s a depth in his gaze, a storm of emotions I can barely comprehend: pain, power, and something terrifyingly close to devotion.

He is beauty incarnate, but not the kind that comforts or inspires. No, his beauty is a conquering weapon. I hate him. I loathe him with every fiber of my being. And yet, as I stare into the face of the man who has claimed me, carved me, and broken me in ways I didn’t think possible, I can’t deny the truth.

I’m captivated.

“You will call me Callum,” he commands, pulls out to his crown, then spears me so hard and deep, I shatter all over again, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, biting his skin around my screams.

Is that his name? His real name? I hate how much I like it.

His shredded muscles bulge beneath my hands. My arousal squeezes beyond where we are joined, leaking onto my thighs and into the water as he rams me again and again. Driving his dick into me. Kissing. Groaning. Fisting my hair with his other hand. His teeth cut into my neck.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers in my ear. “The only woman alive who knows my name.”

I’m drowning in his hunger. Everything in me screams to remember this is nonconsensual. I’m sore, raw, burning. But I’m falling into him, wanting more—his beautiful, chiseled body, his cunning, creative mind, his dark heart, his…soul. I touch his chest, his back, stroking down until my fingertips explore his ass. I marvel at the power in his muscles. His breath thunders, and his eyes seem to turn darker, proving how much my touch affects him, thrills him.

Maybe I want everything. Maybe I’m the first person in the world who could ever stake a claim to everything.

“Fuck! I’m going to fill you every night, blow my goddamn load in you,” he growls, gripping my hair and yanking it back so he may sweep his tongue along my collarbone, my chest, and down to my breast to suck my nipple. No, he attacks it. Lips, tongue, teeth.

Not fair. He’s given me several orgasms, and I’m on the verge of another. He knows my body. He takes advantage of my weakness, my craving for him.

This must be Stockholm Syndrome.

Reminding myself once again, dying to get a handle on things, I touch his wound and dig my fingers into the gored flesh, punishing him like he’s punished me.

His jaw steels. His pupils dilate, nearly swallowing those carmine glints. He unleashes a string of curses and?—

—he snaps and does what he swore. Fucking me deep and blowing his load inside me. Hot and feverish ropes of cum fill me. Fear doesn’t overcome me. I’ve taken my pills. I can’t be bonded to him that way. It would be the nail in my coffin.

Acheron…Callum slaps the side of the bath, the wet sound on the marble echoing but not drowning out the sound of his heavy breaths. His lips are too tender as they rub my neck.

“Get out,” I mutter, bucking.

Then his fingers are on my slippery clit, and I hiss deeply. “You will give me another,” he growls.

“No!” I shriek and pound my fists against his chest. “Enough! You’ve turned my pussy into hell. I’ve got nothing more.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He swipes my clit back and forth, growing my arousal until I’m squeezing around him again, gushing. My fists fall, and I grip his hips. He sucks one nipple, sore and inflamed, and kneads my other breast, leaving marks while tormenting my engorged clit. God, he knows how to punish with unending pleasure.

The pressure comes fast and hard, and I explode. The orgasm splinters me into a million pieces, electrifying my nerve endings. Rapture shoots up my spine and hot euphoria races through my blood until I swear liquid constellations splash my face with unnamable bliss.

Finally, I fall. Finally, he lowers me into the water. He sits on the ledge with his arms wrapped around me as I shudder in the aftermath. After a few minutes, the adrenaline crashes, and I feel everything .

“What now, Acheron?”

“Callum,” he corrects in a low, deep voice.

“Can I call you Cal?”

A pause. I tense, worried if I offended him. But then, he combs his fingers through my hair, kisses me softly, and says, “I’m honored by your desire to give me a nickname.”

Shit. What have I done?

Aww, a nickname, gushes Cherry. That’s practically marriage in villain-speak. Should I start planning the wedding?