34. Aron #2
“Hotshot, look at me.” She turns her head, eyes wide and shining and unhappy. “You might bleed a little. But.” I grab the knife and, unflinching, I slice my palm open until a raw gash runs from side to side. “If you bleed a little, then I bleed more.”
Crimson wells in the wound and then drips.
“What the hell are you doing?” Her voice is shrill and brittle like broken glass.
“Getting lube.”
Then I have an idea, and I set the knife aside. My heart pounding inside my chest, I rub my hands together until they’re completely covered in blood.
“Don’t move,” is the only warning I give her before I slap her ass hard with both my palms at the same time, extending my fingers.
She withstands the blow almost without moving, but then complains, “Oww, what the hell? What was that for?”
I take my hands away, marvelling at the set of two perfect red handprints I leave behind, each completely covering one cheek.
“Now I’m a fucking artist.”
“And a fucking psychopath,” she mutters under her breath.
“The only reason you’re not getting punished for that is that I don’t want to destroy this masterpiece.”
Something inside me flutters when she chuckles.
I rub my cock with my bleeding hand until it’s all covered and slick, and I then align it with her entrance, circling it, teasing it, restraining myself with gritted teeth until she pushes back against me.
Then, and only then, do I slide the tip into her hole, her body resisting the intrusion at first before relenting and pulling me in. She groans, resting her forehead on the mattress. My balls constrict from the sight, sweat erupting over me, ecstasy verging on madness surging through me.
“Oh fuck,” I moan. “Riley, I’m this close to coming just from seeing you like this. You on your knees for me and me slipping into your perfect, tight ass.”
“You’re barely in,” she protests weakly, like she thinks she doesn’t deserve the praise.
“And it’s already amazing.”
My fingers are back on her clit, balancing the pain with pleasure, and I push in another half inch, then stop to let her adjust, and then again, over and over, bringing her closer to her orgasm all the while.
Soon, my cock is buried halfway inside her, and she’s so tight that even if I don’t move at all, it’s incredible.
“Riley, you’re doing so good,” I moan, my voice fractured, desperate, delirious. “It’s like your body was made for me.”
The little sounds of pleasure she makes mingle with mine as I start thrusting in slowly, savouring every tremor that runs through her body, every cry that slips past her lips.
We’re both so close, even before I make it full length, burying myself into her to the hilt, my balls flush against her bloodied cheeks.
“You take me so well, Riley.”
She moans, torn between agony and ecstasy.
I circle her clit harder, giving her one final moment to adapt—a moment is all I can manage.
“Don’t stop,” she mewls. “Let me come.”
“Not yet, Hotshot,” I growl, barely able to breathe. “First, you are going to let me fuck you nice and deep. You’ll feel me for days after I’m done with you.”
I withdraw about halfway before pushing back inside her, and my head kicks back from sheer bliss. I thrust again and again, pulling back just a little further each time until I’m pumping my full length in and out of her.
She’s crying loudly, but arching her back at the same time, like she wants to beg me for more.
Letting go of her hip, I fist her hair at the base of her skull, hazelnut strands spilling over my fingers.
I lean over her, feeling the heat of her body on my chest, both our bodies flush with sweat.
I let go and wrap my fingers around her throat, her heartbeat thrumming underneath my fingertips.
The new angle allows me to slip two of my fingers into her pussy at the front, slick and already spasming for me, her G-spot ripe and swollen.
“Look at you taking my cock in your ass like a filthy whore. What a good fucking girl.”
I quicken my pace, pleasure pooling at the base of my spine. The vulgar, wet sounds of our slapping flesh mingle with her cries and my moans, a depraved symphony.
She shudders, her inner walls lock, and she slams her hips into me, meeting my thrust. And it’s game over. My orgasm rips through me, and I spill into her with a protracted, guttural groan just as she breaks around me at the same time with a scream that bleeds into my name.
“Aron!”
Electricity rushing through me, my eyes roll to the back of my skull. But not before I take in the sight of my cum leaking from around my cock in her tight, wrecked hole, mingling with the drying blood smeared all over her.
Then both our limbs give in, and I collapse on top of her, her body so small in my hold, and her breath sweet and hot on my face, her lips a hair’s breadth away from mine.
And before I know what the fuck I’m doing, I’m kissing her with my eyes closed, cradling her in my arms and whispering words of praise in her ear as she cries softly into my shoulder with a mixture of relief and dropping adrenaline.
I can’t let go of her, and that terrifies me. Never even mind who she is to me, and that the last thing she should get from me is aftercare. Because that’s not even the scary part of it. No, the scary part is that I haven’t done anything like this since I put on the skull mask.
Aron Krasnik may have loved girls, and he may have held them, and he may have cared.
But not the Necromancer. There is no space for feelings in the life I’ve chosen to live.
I fuck girls, and I give them a good time.
But after I give them money instead of kisses.
I discourage them from getting attached, and I sure as shit don’t get attached to them.
Which is why this—holding Riley, comforting her—shouldn’t feel so right. But it does. And the real stuff of nightmares is the dull ache gnawing at me on the inside.
Reminding me how much I fucking miss this.