Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
GRIM
She’d let me fuck her like this, as a body bled out beneath her stilettos, because Gemma Crowne was not the party girl princess America painted her to be. Gemma Crowne courted death.
Seduced it.
Teased it.
From the very first day our eyes connected in that empty high school room, I knew the truth. She was wrapped in it. I should have seen her for the siren she was then, but I was wrapped in death too.
Maybe that was why I could never let her go.
“Why do you keep saving me?” Her tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip.
My eyes locked on that, on her pouty pink lips and her wet, red tongue.
When I spoke, my voice was too low. Too dark. Too smoky. “You have a debt.”
“That’s it? That’s the only reason you’re keeping me alive?”
“Yeah.”
She tilted her head back to hold my stare and hoisted herself onto the black marble sink. Blood fell in drops off her heels as she spread her legs wide for me. Easily. With the movement her dress rose.
No fucking underwear.
I gripped the leather handle of my knife to keep from dropping to my knees and worshipping her cunt, the muscles in my neck spasming.
This fucking killed me. How natural it was for her. The girl with all the walls never had any for me.
I knew she wanted it just as much as I did.
It drove me fucking insane.
That knowledge.
That at any fucking time Gemma would spread her legs for me. The only thing stopping it was me. And, yeah, it wouldn’t be healthy or good, but we’d never been those things. We’d never wanted those things.
She scythed her bottom lip, blanching the pink skin.
Fuck.
My muscles already ached with the strain of holding myself back.
I would always remember how I felt inside her.
How her perfect cunt gripped my cock, like it was made just for me.
There wasn’t a moment that passed I didn’t want to get her back to the point where her nails dug bloody rivers into my back.
When she begged, and moaned, and fell to her fucking knees for me.
I could barely see past the need.
There were things Gemma liked—fucked-up things. Shit I probably shouldn’t want to do to her, but it was all I could think about as she bit her bottom lip, looking at me the way I’d craved for years.
“You keep scaring away all my monsters,” she breathed. Hungry. Heated.
Without thought, only instinct, I stepped between her legs, gripping the back of her neck and angling her so she could feel my words. “I’m your monster. Me.”
“Then when are you going to fucking eat me?” It sounded like a beg, a plea, ripped from her throat. She wrapped her legs around my waist, baby blue eyes wide.
Her eyes dropped to my hand, widening with realization. She took it in her slender one, lifting it up so she could see my newest tattoo. Fresh. The way she bit me when she came now permanently inked into my flesh.
I couldn’t mark her, so I’d cover myself in her. Strung out. Weak? Yeah.
She pressed my tattooed hand between her breasts. “I’ll just keep finding someone else to do it,” she taunted, voice soft.
I gripped her hips and dragged her flush against me. “You do that, Rich Girl. I need a hobby.”
Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout. My spoiled fucking princess.
I wanted her to beg me.
Wanted those spoiled lips pleading me to fuck her.
Her eyes briefly flashed to the body. I gripped her chin, dragging her gaze back to mine. I slid my free hand down her inner thigh, finding her hot and wet.
So fucked up.
So perfectly fucked up.
“Did you forget the dead body?” I slid my fingers inside her, my cock bruising against the seam of my jeans as her eyes grew and then drooped. “You want me to fuck you while someone dies at your feet, Gemma?”
She clenched.
“Fuck…” I rolled my neck, bruising my forehead against hers. “I can feel your answer. You’re so fucked up.”
I sank my fingers deeper, desperate to get inside her. Control wavered. I pressed harder, deeper, faster—addicted to the way she watched me. The dirty, fucked-up thoughts swimming in her hooded eyes, the ones that painted her cheeks red.
“What are you thinking, Rich Girl?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. I slid my grip to her neck, holding tight as I pushed even deeper inside. Her lips parted on a soft moan that went straight to my cock.
“Say it,” I demanded. “Say those thoughts.”
“I’m imagining what it feels like to be marked,” she breathed. “Tattooed. Claimed.”
I stilled.
Her legs spread, eyes wide, entire being vulnerable. Big blue eyes hazy with submission. She’d let me do anything to her. An insane, irrational need blazed through me. I could do more than fuck her like this. I could fucking claim her.
With careful, measured movements, I resumed finger-fucking her.
“And why do you want that?” My throat felt rough, the words sandpaper. “Don’t you know that’s a bad idea? The princess can’t run away with the monster.”
“I don’t want to run away with the monster.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, words a breathless cry that went straight to my cock. “I want the monster to drag me to hell. I dream about how your claw marks feel.”
A jagged groan tore through my body.
“You’d wear it here.” I ghosted my thumb along the back of her neck, just beneath her short hair. “So everyone would fucking know.”
Her cunt spasmed against my fingers at the image I painted. Her heels dug into my ass, pulling me closer.
Whatever control I had left was being ripped apart, shredded to tiny pieces as I fell into the fantasy.
“Anyone who looks at you will know you’re mine,” I growled. “Say it.”
“Everyone would know I’m yours.” She arched into me, voice a husky, breathy promise.
Her body moved against my hand.
Rolling.
Squirming.
She wouldn’t just let me fuck her here—she wanted to be fucked here. A wild, animalistic urge rippled through my muscles. I could take her here. Take her and never fucking let her go. She would be mine—
Fuck.
The last shred of sanity screamed in my veins. Stop. I had to stop.
Gemma Crowne couldn’t be mine. Forget her world and mine were diametrically opposed. Forget that protecting her would be infinitely harder once everyone knew her, that everyone would want her dead, that she would fucking relish it too.
There might come a time when I’d have to choose between her and the Horsemen, between her and my fucking family.
I already knew who I would choose.
And that was the problem.
So as Gemma Crowne collapsed around my fingers, nails biting my neck, her moan muffled against my throat in a vibration I would never forget, my words disappeared into a snarl. “You will never be mine.”
It felt like ripping a knife from my abdomen as I pulled my fingers out of her. It wasn’t right.
I belonged there.
I forced my features into stone, meeting her eyes with a glare. “You’ll never wear my mark.”
My fingers were fucking drenched with her. My perfect fucking princess and her perfect cunt. I couldn’t resist the chance to taste her. Just one last time.
Something like hurt flashed across her face as I slid her taste into my mouth, but it was quickly smothered, replaced by ice.
God, she tasted so fucking good.
Too good.
I stepped back, ready to leave and put distance between this destructive need, when cool metal hit my neck.
Gemma had grabbed my discarded knife, now holding it flush against my skin. Her legs tightened around my waist, forcing me closer to the knife. One wrong move and my neck would open.
And fuck if that didn’t get me hard.
I covered her hand with mine, gripping the handle, and pressed the knife deeper against my flesh.
“You’re in the wrong spot,” I said. “You’re gonna wanna start here, and drag it here.” I dragged her hand slowly across my neck, knife scraping.
She licked her lips.
Pupils dilated, she arched into me. “If I can’t wear your mark, then you’ll wear mine.”
Gemma slammed her lips into mine, scoring my bottom lip with her teeth.