Chapter 15
The twilight has completely vanished, leaving us in a suffocating, velvet darkness illuminated only by the ghostly, iridescent shimmer of the black roses.
The air in the greenhouse is thick, smelling of damp earth, ozone, and the cloying, sweet scent of decay and bloom.
We aren't just lovers in this moment; we are two predators circling a shared madness, a psychological hunger that transcends the physical.
Rhys doesn't just want my body; he wants to consume the very essence of my sanity, and God help me, I’m offering it up on a silver platter.
He shoves me back, my spine hitting the roses, the soil, and the tangled, thorny stems of the black roses.
I gasp as the first few thorns pierce through my skin—sharp, sudden needles of pain that prick my shoulder blades and the soft flesh of my arse.
It doesn't make me recoil. It makes me scream internally with a desperate, feral need.
The pain is a grounding wire, a jagged reminder that I am alive, that I am his, and that we are both descending into a beautiful, psychotic abyss.
Rhys drops between my legs, his eyes glowing with a predatory light. He doesn't hesitate. He dives in, his mouth slamming against my pussy with a hunger that feels like he’s trying to eat his way into my soul.
"Fuck, Rhys..." I moan, my voice a strained, broken whisper. I have to keep it low—his mother is just a few rooms away in the manor—but the effort of stifling my cries only makes the arousal spike.
His tongue is a weapon, flicking with violent precision against my clit, swirling and sucking with an obsessive intensity.
I arch my back, pressing myself harder into the bed of roses.
I feel the thorns digging deeper, slicing thin lines into my skin, drawing beads of blood that mingle with the damp earth beneath me.
Every time he sucks my clit, a thorn pricks the sole of my foot or the curve of my hip, and the juxtaposition of the searing pleasure and the sharp, stinging pain sends me into a fucking frenzy.
I wrap my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding more.
I want to be shredded by these flowers; I want to be marked by the garden and the man.
His mouth is relentless, his tongue sliding deep inside me, tasting my arousal and the salt of my skin.
I can feel the vibrations of his low, guttural growls against my thighs.
The tension builds, a coil of white-hot electricity winding tighter and tighter in my gut.
I’m shaking, my breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.
When the orgasm finally hits, it’s not a wave—it’s a fucking explosion.
I scream into the silence of the greenhouse, the sound muffled by my own hand clamped over my mouth, my body convulsing violently.
As I peak, I press my back further into the thorns, the sharp cuts mirroring the intensity of the pleasure.
I come so hard I see stars, my vision blurring as I sob his name, my muscles twitching in a psychotic release.
But we aren't done. We could never be done.
I scramble forward, my skin stinging and smeared with dirt and blood, and drop to my knees before him.
Rhys is standing there, a dark god in the moonlight, his chest heaving.
He reaches down and frees his cock, and I nearly gasp at the sight of it.
It’s massive, thick and pulsing, a heavy vein running up the length of it like a lightning bolt.
It looks lethal, an instrument of absolute possession.
I make sure his trousers and boxer briefs come off with his shoes.
I don't wait. I wrap my lips around the head, sucking greedily, my tongue swirling around the rim.
I want every inch of him. I take him deep, sliding my throat down the length of his shaft until I feel him hit the back of my throat.
I gag slightly, but the feeling of being filled, of being dominated by his size, makes me moan around him.
I use my hands to massage his heavy balls, squeezing them gently, feeling him shudder. Rhys lets out a low, tortured sound, his fingers digging into my scalp, guiding my head with a possessive grip.
"You greedy little thing," he rasps, his voice dripping with a dark, obsessive love. "Suck it, Ophelia. Take all of it."
I accelerate, my head bobbing in a rhythmic, desperate motion.
I deep-throat him again and again, the friction of his cock against my throat creating a heat that rivals the fire we promised to stand in.
He begins to thrust his hips, fucking my throat with a sudden, violent urgency.
He isn't being gentle; he’s claiming me, using my mouth as a vessel for his madness.
The pace becomes frantic. He’s groaning my name, his voice a raw, broken prayer.
I can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his entire body is vibrating.
With one final, deep thrust that nearly chokes me, he lets out a guttural roar and cums. I feel the hot, thick jets of his seed hitting the back of my throat, and I swallow every single drop, savoring the taste of his surrender and his power.
But the hunger hasn't faded; it's only evolved.
He grabs my waist and flips me onto my back again, but this time, he doesn't just enter me. He slams into me.
The first thrust is like a collision. He buries his entire length inside me in one go, and the force of it pushes me deep into the rosebushes. I feel a long thorn slice across my shoulder, and another tear into the skin of my thigh. I let out a sharp, piercing cry that is half-pain, half-ecstasy.
"Does it hurt, love?" he whispers, his eyes wide and unhinged, his face inches from mine. "Does the pain make you want me more?"
"Yes!" I scream, my legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck me, Rhys! Tear me apart!"
He loses it. The poise, the billionaire facade—it all vanishes, leaving only the psychotic beast. He begins to fuck me with a rhythmic, brutal intensity.
Every thrust is a hammer blow, driving me further into the thorns.
I can feel the blood trickling down my back, the small, stinging wounds acting like aphrodisiacs.
The more I bleed, the more I want him. The more he hurts me, the more I love him.
He’s getting cut too. I can see the scratches on his chest, the thorns catching his skin as he moves, leaving red welts and thin lines of blood across his muscular torso.
He doesn't even flinch. In fact, the sight of his own blood mixing with mine makes him grow even more aggressive. He’s fucking me like he’s trying to merge our bodies into one single, scarred entity.
"You're mine," he growls, his voice a guttural snarl. "Every cut, every drop of blood... it all belongs to me."
"I'm yours!" I wail, my head tossing from side to side. "I'm your fucking ruin!"
He flips me over suddenly, shoving my face into the dirt and roses, forcing me onto my stomach. I gasp as my breasts are pressed firmly against the thorny stems. As he enters me from behind, the motion is devastating. With every powerful thrust of his hips, my breasts are dragged across the thorns.
Slicing. Pricking. Tearing.
I feel the sharp stings across my nipples and the undersides of my breasts, the pain radiating through my chest in waves of electric agony.
It is absolutely insane. I am being shredded by the garden while being filled by the man, and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced.
I’m sobbing, my voice a mixture of laughter and screams, my mind fracturing under the weight of this psychological devotion.
The friction is unbearable, the pleasure so intense it feels like my nerves are on fire. I can feel the bruises forming on my hips where his fingers are digging in, leaving dark marks that will last for weeks. I want them. I want every mark, every scar, every bruise to be a testament to this night.
Rhys is beyond reason now. He’s panting, his breath hot against my neck, his teeth sinking into my shoulder, marking me with a bite that draws blood. He’s fucking me with a feral, animalistic desperation, his cock hitting my cervix with a force that makes my entire world go white.
"I love you," I scream into the dirt, the words tasting of earth and iron. "I fucking love you, you psychotic bastard!"
That’s the breaking point. Rhys lets out a sound that isn't human—a roar of pure, obsessive possession. He thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible, and we both shatter.
I feel my orgasm rip through me, a violent, shaking convulsion that leaves me breathless and broken.
He cums inside me with a force that feels like he’s pouring his entire soul into my womb.
We collapse together into the black roses, our blood mingling on the petals, our breath coming in synchronized, ragged gasps.
We lie there in the dark, shredded, bruised, and completely insane, two broken pieces of a puzzle that finally fit together in the most violent way possible.
I’m back at Rhys’s place, the silence of the house feeling heavy and expectant, like the walls themselves are breathing in sync with us. I’ve wandered into his bathroom, the air still smelling of his expensive cologne and something metallic, something dark.
My eyes drift to the mirror next to the shower.
Every single time I’ve been in this room, I’ve avoided it.
Not just because I didn’t want to see myself, it’s always been covered.
A heavy, velvet black cloth draped over the glass, hiding whatever truth lay beneath.
Rhys always kept it that way. He’s always been the one to control what I see, how I see myself.
Today, the curiosity is a fucking itch I can't stop scratching.