Chapter 19 #5
The statue above us looms faceless, lanterns swing wild, the fountain gurgles like it’s choking on secrets. And Marrow fucks me like love is ruin, like devotion is brutality, like the only way to keep me is to break me so thoroughly I can never leave.
He doesn’t relent. My body’s wrecked, trembling, leaking down my thighs, but he keeps pounding me into the pedestal, brutal, relentless, every thrust a demand. His hand knots tighter in my hair, wrenching my head back so hard my throat arches to the night, a helpless offering.
“I love you,” he snarls against my ear, voice shredded with need, devotion, obsession. His hips slam, deeper, harder, like each thrust is punctuation. “Say it.”
I claw at the stone, at him, my voice shredded, nails bloody. Words stick in my throat, too tangled with screams. He growls, guttural, and then-
He bites.
His teeth sink into the curve of my neck where it meets my shoulder, sharp and merciless, breaking flesh. Pain flares white-hot, and I gasp, shocked, trembling as the warmth of my own blood trickles down my skin, his mouth sealing over the wound like he’s drinking vows straight from my veins.
And that’s when it hits me.
Another orgasm detonates, brutal and blinding, tearing me apart from the inside out. My body convulses around him, milking him, clamping down as my scream cracks into words I didn’t even know I was holding back.
“I love you!” My cry rips the night open, high and raw, soaked in blood and ruin. “I love you—I’m yours—fuck-”
He doesn’t let go when I scream my surrender. He roars into my neck, hips jerking like he wants to fuck the confession deeper into me, to etch the words onto bone.
His cock jerks inside me, hot, thick, flooding me, but his hips keep driving, pounding through his own climax like the act of coming is just the start.
Every thrust grinds his release deeper, forcing it into me, claiming every inch until it feels like he’s trying to write his name inside me with heat alone.
My muscles seize, shaking, clenching, every nerve fried to sparks, but he still moves, hips rutting through his own orgasm like he’ll never stop.
My body is gone, undone, wrecked, but he’s remaking me with every brutal grind, blood at my throat, heat inside me, words he dragged out still echoing in the garden’s once hollow silence.
Finally—finally—he slows. Not out of mercy, but because he wants more.
Different. His teeth leave my skin, lips smeared with blood, and he lowers me down onto the grass at the statue’s feet.
My skirts are in shreds, mask crooked, hair a wild halo, but he lays me out on the grass like I’m an offering.
Like he’s just cleared the altar and now I’m the only worship worth kneeling to.
He drops to his knees between my trembling thighs, spreading me wide with hands that still shake from holding too tight. His mouth hovers over my ruined cunt, hot breath making me twitch, whimper, clench.
And then he pauses—just for a heartbeat, long enough for his eyes to meet mine in the lantern light, fevered and holy. His voice is shredded, desperate, and raw with devotion.
“I love you,” he whispers, low and reverent. “I’ll love you past death, past ruin, past every grave.”
Then his mouth crashes down on me.
His tongue is feral, insistent, worship disguised as consumption. He licks into me, devouring, groaning like the taste is blood and sacrament all at once. His nose grinds against my clit, his tongue plunges deep, his hands pin my thighs wide as if he’s binding me to the earth itself.
I sob-laugh, thrashing, every nerve past burned-out and somehow still sparking alive again. “Marrow—God—please-”
But he won’t stop. Not until I break again, not until his whispered vow is carved into my body with every frantic lash of his tongue.
His tongue drags through me, slow at first, savoring, as if every taste is a relic he’ll keep forever.
He groans into me, the sound vibrating through my clit, and then pulls back just enough to breathe unintelligible words into my wet heat.
He sucks my clit into his mouth hard enough I thrash, gasping, hands clawing at the grass, at his hair, yanking him closer even as my body bucks away from the intensity.
My thighs shake against his grip but he only spreads me wider, diving into every lick like a man who intends to drown.
His tongue plunges back in, curling, drinking. He breaks again for air, words spilling raw against me. “I’ll worship you in blood. I’ll worship you in bone. I’ll worship you in every grave I ever rot in.”
He latches onto my clit again, this time brutal, sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make me scream. His growl shakes through me, half feral, half reverent, like he’s praying with his mouth full of me.
It detonates in me with no warning. My climax rips through me, violent and uncontrollable, my hips jerking off the ground as I scream into the night. My cunt spasms against his mouth, slicking his chin, flooding his tongue, and he takes it all like benediction.
He groans into me, grinding his face harder against my trembling body, licking every spasm, every gush, until I’m sobbing, until the garden rings with my broken cries and his muffled worship.
I collapse against the grass, thighs trembling, lungs clawing for air that won’t come. My mask hangs half-off, feathers torn, silk ruined, but none of it matters because Marrow is still between my legs, chin slick, eyes wild like he’s found God in me.
Slowly—reverently—he rises. Not the gentleman who waltzed me across the ballroom, not the monster who split me on stone, but both at once: feral devotion clothed in ruin.
He bends over me, lips brushing up my belly, over my ribs, up the blood-smeared slope of my throat. His tongue licks the bite clean, mouth sealing over it like he’s signing his name in red. When he pulls back, his lips glisten with me—blood and sex, worship and sin.
“I’ll love you in every ruin,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine, voice still shaking from everything we burned into each other. “I’ll love you until love itself rots.”
The lanterns above swing slower, like the night itself is catching its breath. The fountain murmurs softer. The faceless statue looks down at us, sanctifying blasphemy with silence.
And I laugh—wrecked, breathless, delirious—because of course this is how a masquerade ends: sprawled in the garden, blood on my throat, my skirts in tatters, and a monster kissing me like he’s never going to stop.
And I don’t want him to.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.