11. Camille
Camille
Ryan’s lips are bruised, our breathing tangled.
He’s already half off the stool, his knuckles digging into my shoulder blades while his knees find either side of mine.
His thighs squeeze tight, and—fuck, this is why I cannot resist him—he is so alive under me, terrified and burning, the taste of danger electroplating every last nerve.
I slide my palm up his back and push, just once, until his spine bows, and he’s forced flat to the table, the cold steel making him jerk and curse.
“Camille—”
I flatten a hand to his sternum and pin him there. I can feel his heart, the frantic percussion, and I let him see how much I like it.
“Do you know,” I say, “how many milligrams of venom it takes to kill a person your size?” I trace the hem of his shirt with one finger, then slide beneath it, up the line of his ribs. “Estelle’s yield today would kill you four times over. Five, if you were very lucky.”
He huffs air, mouth open. “That’s not—Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking weird, Camille—”
“Am I?” I lean in, my mouth at his jawline, then his throat. “Or are you the strange one, for wanting me anyway?”
He shivers, then laughs, the sound barely holding together. “You going to inject me with it or just keep talking?”
I bite him, just beneath the jaw, hard enough that he whines.
“Would you like that?” I ask, teeth grazing his pulse. “Would you like to feel your blood melt in your veins, kitten?”
He whimpers, but his hips push up, and his hands grasp the edge of the table, searching for something to anchor him. I roll my hips down, pinning him, and he makes a sound that is almost a sob.
“I wouldn’t let you die,” I murmur into his ear. “I’d keep you right at the edge. Let you feel every moment of it. I have every antivenom I need here.”
He’s gasping, barely able to answer. “You’re sick.”
“I am.” I want to taste his fear, all the way to the marrow. “But you’re here, Ryan. You could have left at any time, but you’re still here.”
He makes a sound, and I know what he’s going to do—he’s going to kiss me again, desperate and unguarded, but I press a finger to his lips and let him taste the acrid powder of my glove, the ghost of antiseptic.
“Shhh.” I draw my hand down, over his neck, his chest, my palm splayed wide. “I could stop your heart. I could make you convulse, right here, on my table. Would you like that, baby?”
He shudders. “I don’t know.” Then, softer, he says, “M-maybe? But don’t call me baby.”
I almost want to laugh. Instead, I place my mouth over where I bit him, sucking until blood rushes to the surface in a hot, perfect bloom.
He writhes, the table clanging under his spine.
He’s panting now, the flush at his throat blooming outward, his pulse visible under the thin skin. I want to see how far I can push him.
“Tell me,” I whisper, palm on his sternum, “what else are you afraid of?”
He stares up at me, eyes glassy with a cocktail of chemical fear and feral longing. “What?”
“I want to know all your weaknesses. Every single one. Are you afraid of suffocating?”
His breath hitches. “I don’t—”
I shush him, then slide my hand to the button at his waistband, pop it free, and shove his shorts and underwear down.
His skin is fever-warm, goosebumps rising instantly against the chill of the table.
I want his shame, his want, all of it mingled, pure.
I want to see what happens when the dread crests the pleasure, how far he can ride the seam.
He catches my wrist. “Camille—”
“Yes?”
“You—” He clamps his mouth shut, but I see the truth in the way his thighs edge apart.
“You want this,” I say, and when he shakes his head, I take him by the chin and force the words out of him, thumb pressing into the soft part under his jaw until he gasps. “Say it.”
He fights it, lips pressed in a bloodless line, but I lean close and let my tongue flick the ridge of his collarbone, slow, and he shivers, all the way to his toes. I feel the wild drumming beneath my hand, and I want more of it. I step back.
“Get up,” I say. He obeys, hands shaking. “Take off your shirt.”
He blinks, unsure, but then pulls his shirt off over his head, leaving him bare except for the open overshirt, which hangs from his shoulders like a cape. The vulnerability of it, the absurdity, makes me want to break him open and drink whatever spills out.
“Come here.” I catch the overshirt and twist him so his back is to me, then wrap my arm around his neck, just so, not tight, but a promise. “Is this what you want?”
He makes a wounded little sound. “I—”
“You can tell me no,” I remind him, mouth at his ear, though I know he won’t. “You can always say stop.”
He doesn’t. So I go further. He arches back, caught in the crook of my arm, and I slip my other hand around to the front, down his bare stomach, stopping just above the line of his pubic hair.
I want him to feel like prey, a trembling thing about to be devoured.
I reach for my belt, and the second the leather whisper is audible, he goes still.
“Camille…”
I slide the belt off and loop it once—then twice—around his neck, buckle resting high against his pulse. He jerks instinctively, but I steady him.
“Tap my arm three times if you need to stop,” I instruct before pulling it tight, his eyes going wide.
My fist tightens in the belt as the other hand migrates downward, palm firm on his abdomen, then lower—two fingers grazing the seam of slick flesh, already warm, already pulsing.
He shudders, and it takes no effort at all to breach him, two fingers at once, then three, not slow, and not gentle.
He makes a small, strangled sound that could be pain or pleasure or both.
“Are you afraid?” I ask, my lips close to his ear, my voice even. “Are you afraid of being torn open?”
He claws at the steel table, hips bucking forward to escape, but I follow, crowd him, keep the pressure constant.
The belt tightens another notch. His lungs heave, and beneath me his cunt spasms, greedy and wanting.
I fuck him with my fingers, steady, stretching him with each thrust, feeling the clutch of muscle and the thermal heat of his body.
When my fingers scissor, he keens, head snapping back against my shoulder, eyes rolling.
I let him breathe, just for a heartbeat, then draw the belt taut again.
“Is this what you want?” I say, fingers buried to the last knuckle, palm grinding against the hard bud of his engorged clit—no, his cock, I remind myself. His slutty, dripping, fucking delicious, tiny, little cock. “To be split open and made helpless?”
He tries to answer, but his voice is gone; all that emerges is a hiss, a trembling. His thighs shake. I fuck him harder, savoring the way his cunt spasms around me, the way his entire body goes taut, hungry for release.
“Are you afraid,” I say, “of what you might do if you couldn’t close? If you just opened and opened, until there was nothing left to hold you together?”
His legs buckle. He makes a noise so sweet and ruined; I want to bottle it, keep it for the dark hours of night. I let go of the belt and catch him under the arms as he collapses forward onto the cold steel, cunt still impaled on my digits. He wheezes, then sobs out a laugh, raw and shaky.
“You’re fucking insane,” he croaks.
“And you crave it.”
He tries to glare, but he’s gone soft and boneless; the fight is burned out for now. I draw my fingers free and watch his hole spasm at the loss.
“You can go if you want,” I tell him, voice gentle now. “But if you stay, you will take everything I give you. Do you understand?”
He nods, face pressed to the steel, lips open and shining with spit.
“Good boy,” I say, and this time, when I bend to kiss the red welt blossoming on his jaw, he melts into it. “Breathe in now. That’s it.”
He does, sharp and deep, a long trembling inhalation that lifts his slight frame from the table in a tremor and then collapses him again, shuddering, under my weight.
He’s all heat and wet and animal want, and I see the place in him where resistance dies and the need for destruction begins.
I pull my hand from his hair and set it flat against his back to hold him down.
The overshirt falls from his shoulders, pooling at his elbows, so his skin is bare and prickled in the lab’s frigid air.
There’s a sheen of sweat already slicking his spine and a line of red where the steel has pressed into his hip bones.
He tries to rut against the table, to draw friction, but I pin him so firmly he can do nothing but whine.
“Don’t move,” I tell him, and he tries, he tries so hard, but every muscle in him is a live wire.
I work the belt higher, the leather biting into his neck just beneath his jaw, the buckle cold against his larynx.
His eyes water as I draw it snug, and he turns his face with a pleading mew, one I reward with a slow drag of my tongue up the side of his throat.
He’s trembling so violently I expect him to jolt off the table, but instead he melts, hips tipping up, the space between his legs glossy and slick and desperate for more.
I palm his cunt, grinding the pad of my thumb against his cock, and he keens, his voice muffled by the pressure at his windpipe.
I want to see how far I can take him. I want to see if he’ll let me break him all the way.
I spit into my hand, coat my fingers, and slide them back inside, this time to the root. He’s tight and hot, but when I work a third finger in, he doesn’t resist—he opens for me, whimpering and clawing at the table until his knuckles scrape raw on the steel.
I curl my fingers and press, the motion punishing and relentless. When I add my pinky, he goes silent, jaw unhinged on a scream he can’t voice.
“Breathe, chaton,” I murmur, tightening the belt, watching the blood pool and throb along the veins in his neck. “I want you to take all of me.”