Chapter 21 #2
He steps closer, one hand cupping my jaw while the other drops to my hip, fingers digging in. “You’re trembling already. I can feel it through this pretty dress. You want my hands on you, don’t you? Want me to peel every layer off until you’re bare under this moon?”
I nod, breathless. He presses me back against the cold stone wall, mouth crashing onto mine.
The kiss is deep, hungry, teeth nipping my lower lip before his tongue slides in.
Heat floods my cunt instantly. My nipples tighten against the velvet, my thighs press together as wetness soaks the thin silk beneath.
I moan into his mouth, hips rocking forward, feeling the hard length of his cock straining against his trousers.
His hands work fast—buttons pop, laces loosen.
The bodice falls open and cool night air kisses my bare tits.
He palms one, thumb circling the nipple, while his other hand hikes my skirt up, bunching the heavy fabric at my waist. His fingers find the wet silk between my legs and press, rubbing slow circles over my swollen clit.
I gasp, throbbing, dripping onto his hand.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls against my lips. “This pretty cunt’s begging for me already.” He grinds his hard cock against my hip, letting me feel every thick inch. “Gonna fuck you right here against these ruins, Ophelia. Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Rhys’s fingers move with purpose. He tugs the sleeves down my arms, the velvet sliding over my skin like a lover’s tongue.
The gown pools at my feet in a crimson heap, leaving me in nothing but my black lace bra and knickers.
He doesn’t bother with the clasps. He rips the bra away, the delicate fabric tearing with a sharp sound that echoes off the stone.
My tits spill free, nipples stiff in the night air.
Then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my knickers and yanks, the lace shredding in his grip until I’m completely bare except for the scorpion-buckled boots.
I reach for him next. My hands shake as I push the frock coat off his shoulders.
It hits the ground with a soft thud. The waistcoat follows, buttons popping under my impatient fingers.
I drag the white shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that map his skin.
My fingers trace down his stomach until I reach his belt.
I unbuckle it, pop the button, and shove the trousers down his hips.
They catch on his boots for a second before he kicks them off.
He’s left in tight black boxer briefs, the fabric stretched obscenely over the thick ridge of his cock.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband and push. He helps, shoving them down until his cock springs free—long, fat, flushed dark at the head, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the slit. It bobs between us, heavy and ready.
Rhys doesn’t waste time. His hands clamp around my waist and he lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the cold stone at my back contrasting with the heat of his body. My bare cunt presses against the length of his cock, slick and throbbing.
I look him dead in the eye. “Please, Rhys.”
He answers with his mouth. He kisses down my throat, teeth scraping my pulse, tongue flicking over the hollow at the base.
One hand stays under my arse, holding me up, while the other slides between us.
His fingers find my clit and rub in tight, wet circles.
I moan, hips jerking, grinding against his hand.
He dips lower, two fingers pushing inside me, curling, stroking that spot that makes my vision blur.
My cunt clenches around him, dripping down his wrist.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes against my collarbone. “Gonna stretch you so good.”
He pulls his fingers out and lines his cock up.
The fat head nudges my entrance, too big, too thick.
He pushes. I feel the pressure, the burn, the way my body resists.
Then he thrusts—hard, sudden. The head pops inside and I scream, the sound raw and echoing off the ruins.
My nails dig into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop.
He lowers me slowly, inch by inch, forcing the rest of that long, fat cock deeper until I’m impaled, stuffed full, his balls pressed against my arse.
I tremble, eyes rolling back, back arching hard against the stone.
It feels like he’s splitting me open, like he’s reaching places no one’s ever touched—deep, so deep I swear I can feel him in my belly.
The stretch burns, aches, but it’s perfect, overwhelming.
Rhys moans low in his throat, a guttural sound of pure possession.
He cups my face, forces my eyes open, makes me look at him. His eyes are black in the moonlight, pupils blown wide, but there’s something colder underneath—obsession, hunger, something that promises he’ll never let me go.
“You’re mine, Ophelia Sorrell,” he says, voice low and vicious.
“Every inch of this cunt belongs to me. I’ll carve my name into your fucking soul if I have to.
You’ll never look at another man again. You’ll never breathe without thinking of my cock inside you.
I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone take you from me. ”
He presses me harder against the wall and starts to thrust. Slow at first, dragging that thick length almost all the way out before sinking back in.
It hurts—sharp, stretching pain with every movement—but he soothes me with kisses, murmuring against my lips, “That’s it, cracked doll. Take it. Breathe for me.”
The sting fades, replaced by something hotter, wetter. Pleasure coils low in my belly, building with each slow drag of his cock. My cunt flutters around him, greedy, slick coating us both.
Rhys’s pace picks up. His hands grip my hips, fingers bruising.
His mouth finds my tits, sucking one nipple hard, teeth grazing, tongue swirling.
I start moving with him, rolling my hips to meet every thrust, chasing the friction.
He fucks me harder, slamming me against the stone, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the ruins.
I moan his name, loud, desperate. “Rhys—fuck—Rhys!”
He growls, eyes flashing. “Say it again.”
“Rhys!”
My hands claw at his back, nails leaving red lines. My eyes roll back, flutter shut, then snap open when he snarls, “Look at me.”
He fucks me senseless, pounding into me, each thrust punching the air from my lungs. I take every inch, greedy, cunt squeezing him like I’ll die if he stops. He reaches between us, fingers finding my clit, tapping fast and sharp.
“Don’t you fucking dare come,” he hisses. “Not until I say.”
I shake my head, trembling. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”
He fucks me harder, torturing me with his cock, grinding deep, the head battering that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. I grab his face, pull him in, bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Let me come,” I grit out.
Rhys growls, dark and vicious. “You come when I tell you, or I’ll fuck you until you pass out and I still won’t let you finish.”
He slams into me, brutal, relentless. I scream into his mouth as he kisses me bruisingly, tongue forcing past my teeth. We fuck like animals, sweat-slick, desperate. I feel his muscles lock, his cock swelling inside me, stretching me even more.
“Now,” he commands. “Come for me.”
I shatter. My cunt clamps down, pulsing, milking him as I come so hard I see stars—literal stars exploding behind my eyes. Rhys groans, hips stuttering, and floods me deep, hot cum pumping into me in thick pulses. He buries his face in my neck, voice ragged against my ear.
“I love you, Ophelia Sorrell.”
The words of love are still echoing in my ears, the heat of Rhys’s seed still pulsing deep inside my cunt, when the world suddenly snaps.
Before I can even blink, before I can wrap my arms around him and sink into that possessive warmth, Rhys’s hand flashes. He’s got a fistful of that cursed black sand, and with a sudden, violent motion, he flings it straight into my eyes.
"What the fuck—!"
The scream dies in my throat. The world doesn't just blur; it dissolves. The scent of ozone and old stone vanishes, replaced by something sickeningly familiar. The smell of cheap floral perfume, stale biscuits, and the metallic tang of old radiators.
I blink, and I’m not in the ruins anymore. I’m not naked. I’m not with Rhys.
I’m in the living room. My living room. From seven years ago.
I look down at my hands. They’re tiny. Pale, small fingers clutching the fabric of a dress—my twelfth birthday dress.
It’s a frilly, pink monstrosity with a giant white bow at the waist and a black bow on my hair, the kind of thing that made me feel like a doll.
I feel a sudden, jarring sense of vertigo.
I’m small. I’m twelve again. I’ve been shoved back into my own childhood body.
"What cartoons are we watching on the telly?"
The voice hits me like a physical blow. I snap my head to the side. Rosalind. She’s sitting right there, her eyes bright, her own pink dress perfectly pressed. She looks so fucking alive it hurts to look at her.
Next to her, Cordelia is clutching the remote, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she flips through the channels, settling on the cartoon network.
We’re lined up on the sofa—Rosalind at the far end, Cordelia in the middle, and me, pressed against the cold, damp wall at the end.
I remember this. This was the night. The fateful, bloody night.
We’d just come back from the party at the Tin Heart toy shop.
I can still remember the taste of the cake, the way Papa had laughed and taken photos of us, playing the part of the doting father for all the other kids.
Then he’d left us alone for a bit, and Cordelia—always the little shit, always the ringleader—convinced us to stay up past our bedtime.
The house is too quiet. The only sound is the tinny noise of the television.