26. Twenty-Six #3
Arrow stripped his ruined pants, blood damp at the thighs, and kicked them to the side before stalking to the bed and spreading his arms—a king waiting for tribute or mutiny.
“Take off your clothes,” he commanded.
Hesitating, but only for the drama of it, I crawled up the mattress, the necklace in my fist, and knelt at the midpoint, wild and dripping between my legs. He let me guide him on his back, hips hard, arms out like he was ready to be bound and named.
I stared at him, shoulders mapped in bruises, chest rising, throat twitching.
He looked immortal, terrible, sainted in violence and need.
Straddling him, cock under me, I slid down slowly, my pussy hungry for the stretch of him.
I let him fill me, let my every vertebra record the moment it sheared open, and rode him with a greed that bordered on obscene.
Rolling my hips, nails braced at the slabs of his chest, the friction sent aftershocks through my core, every nerve lit. I rode him slowly, the slide so slick and filthy that the sound filled the room—wet, messy, the evidence of how much I wanted him visible on his cock, on my thighs.
Arrow didn’t touch me. He just lay there and watched patiently as I ground myself on him, my pussy dragging along his length.
Every thrust forward sent me closer to the edge, and he knew it.
He watched me chase it, watched my tits bounce, watched the chain cut into my throat as I moved, and his cock twitched inside me with every grind.
His jaw was locked, his breathing ragged, but he didn’t move.
He just let me fuck myself on him until my legs started to shake.
He was already on the edge, watching me destroy myself for him.
Arrow let me take the pace, his hands open, and unpressured, until the rhythm began to break him. Once, twice he tried to seize my waist and force the tempo, but I slapped them away, then laced my fingers into his hair and yanked hard to bring his face up to mine.
“You want it, diavolo?* You want to come inside me again?”
Not answering, his nostrils flared, and his cock stiffened even more inside me.
I ground us together, messier now, the sound filthy.
He smiled when I locked eyes with him, and in the trance of it, took hold of my hips, slowing my rhythm to match his lethal tempo.
It was torture, and he made me savor every inch, every return to the root.
I threw my head back, hair tangling over my shoulders. Arrow raked his thumbnails down my thighs until I gasped, the pain a bright cord through the pleasure. His hands flexed, failing to fit all the need into a single grip, so he dug into the meat of my hips, urging me down harder, faster.
When my head went slack, he caught it in his palm, drawing my mouth to his, drinking in the moan right off my tongue.
More bruises bloomed across my thighs, my hips, my ribs. Arrow fucked up into me hard, his cock hitting every spot every single time, and when my cunt clenched around him, he didn’t relent.
He drove harder, matching my grind, his tongue claiming my mouth, his hands brutal to my hips. I screamed, and this time, it wasn’t fighting. It purged the old violence from my cells and replaced it with something almost tender.
Almost.
Arrow came with a howl, flooding me, biting so hard on my neck that I heard the blood rush up to feed the bruise.
His body locked into mine, a tremor running the length of his frame, and then, slowly, he loosened his grip and pulled me down, buried chin-to-shoulder.
We stayed that way until the city outside blurred into nothing but the hush between two animal hearts.
Drifting in the tangle of us, I cataloged the wounds, the pressed crescents of our mutual appetite, and let a feral, impossible joy flicker in my chest.
This was what it meant to survive.
It wasn’t meek, nor gentle, but stained with all the red of hunger, tethered to a man who would break the world with you if it meant having another hour locked together in the wreckage.
Arrow smoothed the hair away from my eyes, his thumb soft at my cheek. Pressing the base of my throat, right where the chain bit down, he rolled us to the side, cradled me from behind, and spoke into the bruises he’d left along my neck.
“You know, I dreamed about you before I ever saw you. Not your face, just a feeling. The sense that if I fucked up one more time, the universe would send someone to end us both.”
Blinking—half-laughing, half-stunned—I said, “So, what am I, your destroyer?”
“My reward.” He smiled against my skin. “Or my punishment.”
Flexing under his arm, I turned toward him, blankets falling away. He trailed his hand over my shoulders, mapping each ridge of muscle, and every bruise he’d carved into my skin.
I could see it plain as day—the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his pupils dilated, the hunger that never quite left his eyes. It was there when his fingers lingered on the darkest marks, in the slight tightening of his jaw.
Arrow already craved the next escalation, the next risk, to see how far I’d let him go before I snapped and started breaking him in return.
* My little viper
* Devil (Italian)