Chapter 14 #2
I kiss her like I’m trying to tear her apart.
And she lets me.
I should stop. I should walk away, make her sign, and be done with it. But then she looks at me, lips swollen, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, her blood smeared across her skin like something sacred. And I know.
I know in this moment with a certainty I’ve never felt before.
I will never walk away from this.
From her.
A feeling, dark and ancient twists in my chest, something possessive, something cruel. I reach for the knife again, the handle warm now from her skin, the blade still slick with the thin smear of her blood.
She watches as I lift it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t protest.
She knows what’s coming.
I flip my grip and, without hesitation, press the edge against my palm.
The pain is sharp, quick, a hot flash of fire cutting through flesh.
Blood wells instantly, dark and rich, sliding over my fingers.
Martine’s breath catches, and I see it, the way her pupils blow wide, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
She’s not afraid.
She’s mesmerized.
I don’t give her time to think. I reach for her, placing my palm on her chest, between her gorgeous tits. Our blood smears together, hot and slick, mingling at the seam where my palm meets the warm skin of her breastbone.
A shudder runs through her, but she doesn’t pull away.
I push harder, caressing the raw wound of my palm against hers until I feel her pulse thrumming against mine, our blood mixing, binding.
Her lips part on a shaky exhale.
I smirk. "You feel that?"
She nods, dazed.
"That’s a promise," I whisper, "A claim. You're bound to me now."
She swallows, eyes flicking down to where my hand is, pressed to her chest. Our blood mixed, blood smeared across our skin like ink on a contract. When she finally looks back up at me, something has shifted.
Her look has softened, and there are tears in her eyes.
I bring my hand down and smear the mixture of our blood across the marriage contract, marking it with our ritual of hate and desire.
“I’m bound to you,” she whispers.
There’s something primal in it—a permanence in the whisper of her voice.
For a moment, I let her breathe it all in, the only sound against the blue wallpaper and dark wooden floors of the room is the candles on the dining table fluttering, and the gasping sounds of her trying to regulate her breath.
Once I’m sure she isn’t going to pass out, I move.
I lean forward and bring my mouth to her gorgeous tits, and drag my tongue through the blood at the center of her chest, tasting the salty and sharp iron and heat of her.
Martine shudders, her breath ragged.
"Now," I murmur against her skin, my voice rough, raw, edged with something dangerously close to devotion, "sign the fucking contract."
Martine Lilian Herron
I sign the contract. The moment stretches, thick with the weight of understanding, of knowing exactly what comes next.
Hayden moves first. He always does. A sharp pull, his fingers curling around my wrist, dragging me into his orbit.
My back meets the table, the cool dark wood a stark contrast to the heat licking up my spine.
His hands are everywhere, possessive, claiming, as if the act of signing was just a formality, like he already owned me long before this moment.
“You know what this means,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my skin.
I do. And I don’t care.
His hands find the remains of my dress and my panties and tugs them down, his mouth covering mine in a quick attack of teeth, lips, and tongue.
I moan into his mouth as his fingers find my wet pussy and he drags his fingers around with a slowness that could kill me.
He wastes no time exploring my pussy, swirling his fingers in and around my wetness, bringing embarrassment to my cheeks. I wobble a bit at his exploration, nearly missing the large bowl of apples placed behind me as I fall back on my forearms.
My legs quake slightly from the feeling of him, and he brings that ever-present other hand to my throat, squeezing just right. Just tightly enough to remind me that worse things could happen, yet a promise of more to come.
He’s been so rough this evening, and I would be denying myself if I didn’t admit it has been an incredibly freeing experience.
He brings his fingers, which he was just running through my pussy, up to my mouth and shoves his middle and ring finger between my lips forcefully.
His fingers on my tongue force me to taste myself.
I gag at the assault, unprepared for the depth to which he shoves his fingers in my mouth, all the way until his knuckles knock against my teeth.
The sharp salty taste of my wetness coats my tongue, and I start to drool around the fingers he has stuffed deep in my mouth.
His grip loosens on my neck, and his fingers leave my tongue, and before I can make sense of the shift, he reaches past me, and within seconds, a crisp green apple is in front of my face.
There’s been a bowl of them on the dining table, always full, placed fresh every morning by the house staff.
They show up everywhere on the nightstands, on silver trays in the sitting rooms, even in the library.
Always the same kind. Always green. A quiet, constant reminder of his obsession with me.
A representation of me in the room at all times.
Like he wants me seen, owned, consumed, or maybe, the way I fantasize about it, he doesn't like to be in a room without me.
“Open.”
I hesitate, but only for a second. His eyes dare me to disobey. I part my lips, and he presses the apple between my teeth, cool, smooth, tart against my tongue.
“Hold it.” His voice is smooth, unwavering. “Don’t bite through. Don’t drop it.”
The weight of it strains my jaw almost instantly, but I nod, digging my teeth in only slightly. The sharp tartness of it fills my mouth, and I feel the smooth, waxy skin with my tongue.
Hayden smirks. Pleased.
“Good girl.”
He moves closer, his hands tracing down my sides, my hips caged beneath his grip. My breathing quickens, but I keep my hold on the apple, fighting the instinct to clamp down, to let it slip. His fingers press into my thigh, trailing higher, teasing, testing his own private experiment in control.
The apple wobbles slightly as I exhale too sharply. His hand is at my throat in an instant, steadying me, steadying it.
“Careful,” he warns, low and dark. “I told you not to drop it.”
I swallow hard, the pressure in my jaw nothing compared to the tension crackling between us. His thumb brushes over my pulse, his gaze burning through me. I can’t move. I don’t want to.
Hayden leans in, lips grazing the curve of my cheek. A breath away from my ear, he murmurs.
“Let’s see how long you last.”
He leans down and pulls my legs to spread around his hips. The threat of his words and the tone of his voice fill me with a dark chill, far colder than my nakedness against the room.
“Now, it’s time to eat,” he says in that dark tone that makes me quiver in fear and anticipation.
He sits at the head of the table as he grabs my ankle, dragging me roughly toward him with effortless strength, as if I weigh nothing. With deliberate precision, he lifts my heeled feet, resting them lightly on the arms of his dining chair.
Leaning forward, he takes a deep breath of my arousal, making me want to clamp my legs shut at the vulgarity of it. I’m so wet I could cry.
I never expected it to turn me on the way it did.
The sharp sting of the blade, the warmth of his blood mixing with mine.
It should have unsettled me, but instead, it sent a slow, aching heat through me.
I can still feel the way he looked at me, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he traced the lines across my skin, deliberate, possessive.
I should have been afraid. Instead, I wanted more.
He slaps my pussy painfully quick, with a loud crack that erupts throughout the room, making me whimper around the apple.
Did he just slap me there?
Its tartness causes my mouth to water, and saliva starts to pool and drip down the sides of my cheeks. I try to clamp my legs shut.
“Your pussy belongs to me, don’t you dare pull away,” he grunts, using both hands to spread me wide, baring the depths of me to him. I whimper from the humiliation of the exposure, but I moan because I love it more.
The pain from his slap, the sharp ache of the wound beneath my breasts. I want more. I want so much I can barely breathe.
“Please, more,” I beg around the apple, my voice muffled. I’m not quite sure what for. Is it the pleasure he brings me? No, I think it’s the pain.
He leans forward, dragging his tongue through my pussy lips, and then curls his tongue inside of me with expert skill. Pushing in and out of me at an intoxicating pace, he fucks me with his tongue so good I can hardly breathe.
“It feels so good, my god, it feels so fucking good.” I moan, slurring from my stuffed mouth.
Pulling his tongue away from my entrance, he uses his tongue to circle my clit, in precise circles that make my hips move in time with them, curving and rocking along with his tongue.
Just as I feel my thighs begin to shake from the obsessive rhythm he continues on my slick clit, he pulls back and slaps me right on my pussy just as he did before. A slap timed so perfectly as I was just reaching the crest of my orgasm.
I let out another loud moan at the sharp feeling. I’m dripping wet, I can feel it dripping between my ass cheeks and down onto his lap. He has me pulled so far forward that almost my entire behind is hovering off the table.
“I know, darling, I know.” He whispers on my wet folds.
I try to clamp my legs closed again to shield myself from the pain, but he tuts at me in disappointment and spreads my legs again, giving me another quick smack. I whimper. That’s three slaps to my most sensitive flesh.