Chapter 9 Bleed, Bite, Belong
Bleed, Bite, Belong
~SERAPHINE~
Ihover above him, thighs trembling so hard I'm surprised he can't hear my bones rattling.
The head of his cock presses against my entrance—blunt, hot, impossibly large—and every nerve ending in my body screams contradiction.
Want this, don't want this, need this, will die from this.
My toe taps against the mattress—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times before I force it still.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. The counting doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I'm about to let an Alpha I've known face-to-face for less than an hour but loved for years inside my body, and I can't tell if this is salvation or the final nail in my coffin.
His hands find my hips—warm, certain, the callused palms of someone who's survived through touch and precision just like me.
"Whenever you're ready, Sweets," he murmurs, and the gentleness in his voice makes my chest crack open.
I lower myself.
Slowly.
So fucking slowly.
The stretch is immediate and overwhelming—my body resisting, then yielding, then resisting again as I take him inch by impossible inch. My fingers flex against his chest—open, close, open, close—four times each while I try to remember how to breathe.
Two inches.
I pause, gasping.
Four inches.
A whimper escapes my lips—high, pathetic, the sound of someone being unmade.
His grip on my hips tightens, fingertips digging into flesh hard enough to bruise, to mark, to claim.
"That's it," he breathes. "Take your time."
Six inches.
I'm shaking now—full-body tremors that have nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the fact that I've never been this full, never felt this stretched, never had an Alpha who made me want to count higher just to prove I could survive him.
Eight inches.
My thighs are burning from holding myself up, from controlling the descent, from not just dropping and taking all of him at once the way instinct demands.
But control is all I have.
Control and counting and the obsessive need to do this right, to make it even, to prove I'm not completely broken.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
I lock eyes with him.
His pupils are blown so wide the green-gold is just a thin ring around the black, and the look on his face—fuck, the look on his face is worship and hunger and something that might be love if I was stupid enough to believe in it.
"All the way, Seraphine," he says, and hearing my full name in his mouth does something to me.
Something dangerous.
Something that makes me let go.
I drop the final two inches and take him completely.
The sound I make isn't human.
It's animal—a cry of pleasure-pain that tears out of my throat as he bottoms out inside me, stretching me to my absolute limit, filling spaces I didn't know existed.
My walls clench around him instinctively, adjusting to his size, and he groans—a deep, guttural noise that vibrates through his chest into mine.
"Fuck." The word punches out of him. "Fuck, tight as hell."
I can't respond.
Can't do anything except sit there, impaled, feeling him pulse inside me while my body tries to decide if this is pleasure or death.
Both, probably…definitely.
His hands slide up my sides—slow, reverent, tracing the ladder of my ribs, the bruises from my corset, the constellation of scars I've collected like trophies. When his palms cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over peaked nipples, I twitch—a full-body spasm I can't control.
"Been dying to touch you," he whispers, and the confession is so raw it makes my eyes sting.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest, letting my hair fall around us like a curtain.
"Then touch me," I breathe. "Touch me like you mean it."
His hands move to my hips again—gripping harder this time, fingernails digging in deep enough I know I'll have crescent-shaped marks tomorrow. Evidence. Proof. Something to look at when my brain tries to convince me this was all a hallucination.
Then he pulls me down and kisses me.
Not gentle.
Not tentative.
Claiming.
His tongue invades my mouth like he's trying to memorize every tooth, every taste, every sound I make when he bites my bottom lip hard enough to sting.
I kiss him back with equal ferocity—hands fisting in his pink hair, nails scratching his scalp, teeth catching his tongue in a way that makes him groan into my mouth.
We make out like we're drowning and the other person is air.
Like we've been starving for five years, and this is the first real meal.
As if we stop, even for a second, the universe will remember we're not supposed to exist together and tear us apart.
His hands are everywhere—gripping my ass, my thighs, my waist, leaving bruises in the shape of his desperation. My fingers map the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the tattoos I want to trace with my tongue later when I'm not so thoroughly wrecked.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both gasping.
"Move," he commands, voice rough. "I need you to move, Sweetness. Need to feel you riding me."
The image his words paint—me, bouncing on his cock, taking control, using him for my pleasure—sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
I lift myself experimentally.
Just an inch.
The drag of him against my inner walls is exquisite torture, every nerve ending lighting up in a way I've never experienced before.
Then I lower myself again.
Slowly.
Savoring the fullness, the stretch, the way my body yields to him like it was designed for this exact purpose.
"Fuck," I breathe. "You're so big. I've never—"
"Good." His grip on my hips tightens, guiding me into a rhythm. "No one else gets to have you like this. Just me, hmm."
The possessiveness should annoy me.
Trigger all my defenses about being owned, being controlled, being treated like property.
But coming from him—from Sage, who spent all this while letting me have power over him, who could have escaped the handcuffs at any moment but chose to stay bound—it doesn't feel like ownership.
It feels like devotion.
I start to move faster.
Up and down, finding a rhythm that makes my toes curl, that sends sparks shooting up my spine with every downward thrust. My slick makes the glide effortless—obscenely wet sounds filling the room as I ride him, as I take what I need, as I prove that I can do this without falling apart.
He growls beneath me.
The sound primal, possessive, and so Alpha it should terrify me.
Instead, it makes me moan.
A high, desperate sound that I try to muffle by biting my lip, but he hears it anyway.
"Don't hide from me," he demands. "Let me hear that melodic voice of yours."
I giggle—can't help it, the sound bubbling up from somewhere unhinged and delighted.
"You're not making me feel anything," I taunt, even as my pussy clenches around him. "I'm the one doing all the work here."
His eyes flash with challenge.
"Oh really?" He thrusts up as I come down, driving himself impossibly deeper, and I scream. "Seems like you need me, Sweets. Seems like you've been waiting five years for someone big enough to fill you properly."
My laugh turns breathless.
"You think you're special? Think you're different from every other Alpha who's tried to fuck the crazy out of me?"
"I'm clearly bond material," he says, dead serious despite the circumstances. "Why else would you be riding me like your life depends on it?"
I pause mid-thrust, staring down at him with wide eyes.
"Bond material?" I repeat, incredulous. "You really think you could handle bonding with an Omega whose name you barely know?"
His grin is devastating.
"I know enough." His hands guide me back into motion, forcing me to keep moving even as my brain short-circuits.
"I know you're Seraphine. I know you dedicated five years to writing letters to a misfit nobody like me.
I know you seal them with your blood because commitment matters to you, even when hope seems stupid. "
He drives up into me again, hitting something inside that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
"And if you're a killer?" He shrugs, the motion making his cock shift inside me in ways that scramble my thoughts. "That's just a bonus, Sweets. I like my women dangerous."
The words unlock something in me.
Something wild, desperate, and absolutely fucking feral.
I start riding him in earnest now—lifting my hips faster, grinding down harder, chasing the building pressure that's coiling tight in my belly. My hands brace on his chest for leverage, nails digging into his skin, and I throw my head back as pleasure crashes through me in waves.
This is what I've been missing.
This connection, this intensity, this feeling of being seen and wanted and claimed by someone who knows exactly what kind of monster I am and wants me anyway.
"Fuck," I gasp between thrusts. "Fuck, Sage, you feel so good. So fucking good."
His answering groan is pure satisfaction.
"That's my girl," he praises, and the words make me clench around him. "Use me and you will. I'm yours, at your complete disposal."
The rhythm I've established turns frantic, desperate, my thighs burning with the effort of lifting and dropping my weight on his cock over and over.
Sweat slides down my spine, pools between my breasts, makes my pink hair stick to my neck and shoulders in damp tangles.
I don't care. Can't care about anything except the pressure building inside me—coiling tighter with every thrust, every grind, every fucking second he's inside me filling spaces I didn't know were empty.
I throw my head back, exposing the long line of my throat.
The movement is instinctive—prey behavior, submission, the kind of vulnerability that should terrify me, but instead feels like power because I'm choosing it. Choosing him. Choosing this moment of surrender even though surrender has always meant death before.
Sage makes a sound that's barely human.