Page 100 of Cain

“Say it,” he growls. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” I pant. “Yours. It’s yours?—”

His hands grip my hips like he wants to break them. His cock slams into me, primitive and brutal, ripping the moans from my throat with each thrust.

“You think you can lie to me? Keep secrets?” He’s panting, rasping against my neck. “You’re nothing but a tight, filthy hole for me to fuck when I’m done spilling blood.”

He grabs my hair, yanks my head back, and keeps fucking me like he’s trying to split me in half. “You like this, huh? My cock splitting you open while that dead fuck watches?”

And I can’t stop shaking. I can’t stop moaning. I clench harder around him.

“You’re sicker than I thought,” he snarls. “And you’re mine.”

“Yes,” I choke. “Yours.”

He fucks me harder, faster, using me like a thing, like a hole that exists to take his rage. The wall rattles. My legs shake. My whole body screams from the inside out.

I want to say stop. I want to say more. But I can’t.

The pleasure hits too hard. Too fast. My whole body tightens, then lets go.

I come so hard I see white. My legs give out. My ears ring.

Everything spins.

His hand wraps around my throat, bringing me back to reality. “Passing out from a little orgasm, baby?” he hisses as his lips brush against the shell of my ear.

“Only you can make me fall apart like this,” I pant, my voice coming out broken from the pressure on my neck.

He spins me around and pushes me back against the wall, my back slamming against the paint.

“Kneel.”

Without tearing my eyes from his, I obey, more aroused by the second.

He savagely grabs my wrists and pins them against the wall above my head. Then he takes a fistful of my hair and pulls me onto him without warning. His cock hits the back of my throat on the first thrust.

“Fuck yes.”

I gag as tears run down my cheeks.

He doesn’t ease up. His grip tightens as he thrusts into my mouth, rough, relentless, fucking my throat. They get faster, more desperate. I feel him twitch in my mouth, his body straining. I moan around him as my mouth clenches. He shudders and lets out a sharp curse.

“Shit. You’re fucking perfect like this. On your knees with your mouth full of my cock,” he growls lower, his defenses dropping. “So fucking powerless.”

My own arousal is dripping down my thighs, and he knows it.

He releases my wrists. “Rub that dirty clit while I fuck your face. Now.”

I obey. My fingers slide between my thighs, and I rub furiously. I moan around his hard length, gagging on him as he grabs my head and slams into me one final time. He groans, long and low, as he comes hard, spilling down my throat while I fall apart on my fingers, shaking and gasping around his cock. I swallow all of it—every drop.

He finally pulls out, drool and cum smeared across my mouth. He wipes my chin with his thumb, then licks it clean.

“You exist to be fucking mine, my beautiful, fucked-up masterpiece.”

I nod slowly, looking deeply into his eyes.

Somewhere in themiddle of the night, we stopped fucking, because one round wasn’t enough for him to release his anger—not that I can complain. As time went by, I realized—and probably accepted the fact—that Iamsick. I didn’t push him away when I should have. I didn’t scream when he walked into my room holding a fucking head. Hell, this thing is still right next to the wall, staring at us, and I simply ignore it. It’s not that I don’tfeel my spine crawl when I think of it. I just feel safer around him, after all.