Change 28 #3
My voice cracks but I go again, the blasphemy burning hotter than the cold. "Rhys—please—make me come—use my cunt—break me—put me back together however you want—”
He laughs, dark and unhinged, and slams in so deep my vision whites out. “That's right, Ophelia. And now, I will answer your fucking prayer.”
He growls, a sound that vibrates through his chest into my spine.
His free hand slides under the bunched dress, finds my breast, and squeezes hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh until I whimper, fingers squeezing my breast hard enough to bruise, thumb flicking the nipple while he rails me without rhythm or mercy.
He twists my nipple, then slaps the side of my tit, the sting sharp and perfect.
The cross rattles against the stone with every thrust. My screams tear through the graveyard, raw and shameless.
His hips never slow. He pounds into me like he’s trying to fuck me through the stone, the cross rattling with every thrust. My wrist burns from the cuffs. My cunt aches, stretched and used, but I push back against him, arching my back so he can go deeper, so the head of his cock bruises my insides.
"Scream my name," he orders. "Wake the fucking dead. Let every corpse in this graveyard know who owns you."
I lose it. "Rhys! Rhys! Fuck—Rhys!" My voice cracks, raw and desperate.
"Rhys—Rhys—fuck—Rhys!" I wail his name like a prayer, louder than the wind, certain it’ll wake the dead.
My body locks up, cunt pulsing around him in violent spasms. Pleasure rips through me so sharp it feels like pain, my thighs shaking, toes curling inside the wet boots.
The orgasm builds like a storm, pressure coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps.
I come screaming, vision fracturing, every nerve lit up and raw.
My whole body seizes. My cunt spasms around him, milking him, squirting down his thighs and onto the tomb.
I scream his name again and again, the sound echoing off the abbey walls, probably waking every ghost in Whitby.
My vision tunnels. My heart hammers so hard I feel it in my teeth.
Tears streak my face, mixing with sweat and sea spray.
He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, brutal and relentless, until I’m sobbing, overstimulated, my body twitching with aftershocks.
He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me with hot, thick pulses.
Only then does he let go. He buries himself to the root and comes with a guttural snarl, flooding me with hot, thick pulses.
His cock twitches inside me, pumping load after load until it leaks out around his shaft and runs down my thighs in sticky rivulets. I feel every spurt.
When he finally pulls out, a thick strand of cum stretches between us before snapping.
It pours from my swollen cunt, coating my inner thighs, dripping onto the stone between my spread feet.
My legs shake so badly I can barely stand.
My wrist is raw from the cuffs. My dress is ruined, half soaked in seawater and half in sweat and cum.
My hair is a tangled mess. My mind is blank, floating somewhere between terror and bliss.
My heart feels cracked open, raw and exposed, but it beats only for him.
Half-dressed, half-cuffed to a cross on a tomb, I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter. My mind is gone—blank, floaty, owned. My heart hammers like it’s trying to escape my ribs, yet every beat whispers his name. I’ve never felt more terrified. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never wanted him more.
I’m shaking, crying, dripping, and I’ve never felt more alive. The night wind chills the mess on my thighs, but inside I’m burning. I turn my head as much as the cuffs allow and look at him over my shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted. "More," I whisper, voice hoarse. "Please, Rhys… don’t stop."
Rhys smiles like the devil who just won my soul, and I know the night is far from over.
He plucks a black rose from inside his coat and offers it like a sacrament. He has me smell it then places it on my cuffed hand, next to the other black rose.
“Every time you inhale that flower,” he says, “remember I’m already inside your lungs. You can’t cough me out.”
Rhys lifts me from the altar tomb like I weigh nothing, one arm sliding beneath my knees while the other cradles my back.
My legs dangle over his forearm as he carries me away from the graveyard, my gothic Victorian dress still bunched around my waist, thighs sticky with his cum.
The night air bites at my exposed skin, but his grip is iron, possessive, like he’ll never set me down again.
He holds my gaze the entire walk to the shore.
Those dark eyes never waver, burning into mine with that same unhinged devotion.
The moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, making him look half-devil, half-saint.
My arms loop around his neck, fingers threading into his unbelievably soft hair as he strides across the damp grass and down the rocky path toward the sea.
The water comes into view, black and endless under the moon.
He doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight in, boots splashing through the shallows, then wading deeper.
The cold hits me first—freezing, shocking against my bare cunt and thighs.
I gasp, but he keeps going, the sea rising around us, soaking the hem of my dress, then my waist. Only when the water reaches his chest does he stop, the tide lapping at my ribs.
"I’d drown us both if it meant keeping you like this forever," he murmurs, voice rough with obsession. "You’re my religion, Ophelia. My reason to breathe. I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to you if you asked."
His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and claiming.
The kiss is deep, tongues sliding, teeth nipping.
Salt stings my lips as he lowers us both, the icy water swallowing us inch by inch until we’re fully submerged.
The cold is brutal, shocking, stealing my breath, but his arms stay locked around me.
We sink together, hair floating, clothes billowing in the current.
Then he pushes us back up. We break the surface gasping, water streaming from our faces.
Moonlight glimmers on the waves around us.
I cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as I pull him back into another kiss.
Our mouths move together, desperate and slow, tongues tasting salt and each other while the sea rocks us gently.
His hands grip my thighs, keeping me wrapped around his waist, and I hold his face like it’s the only anchor I have left in the freezing dark.