Page 28 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name without spitting it out like an insult.” His smirk is nothing but mockery. “What’s wrong, good girl?”

The glass nudges against my slick, gliding effortlessly between my folds.

“You were so eager to grab this bottle earlier,” he muses, teasing my entrance with the rim. “So eager to hurt me with it.”

I suck in a sharp breath, every muscle trembling. His hand moves to my throat, gripping just tight enough to remind me who’s in control.

“But since you like to think about hurting me,” he murmurs, lifting my chin up, forcing me to look at him, “I’d love to show you every way it can be used.”

The cracked glass circles my clit, sliding through my wetness with humiliating ease.

“I—” My voice breaks. I shake my head violently. “I’m sor—”

Zane doesn’t let me finish.

The bottleneck shoves inside, just half an inch, but it’s too much. A scream rips from my throat so violently that my own ears ring with it. My body lurches forward, desperate to escape, but Zane drags me back, forcing me to take it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Sing for me, baby.”

“Zane,”

He twists the glass, and I nearly black out.

“No,” I gasp, my back arching violently. “No, no, no—please!”

“Fuck, you’re tight.” His growl is strained, almost wrecked, like the way I’m breaking apart is turning him on more than he can handle.

I shake my head frantically, the edges of my vision swimming.

“You wanted to hurt me,” Zane snarls, pushing the bottle another fraction deeper. “So tell me, baby girl—” His teeth scrape my jaw. “How does it fucking feel?”

Another wave of pain slams into me. My legs nearly give out, but he holds me up, keeps me locked between his body and the window.

I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this.

A choked sob escapes. “Please.”

Zane exhales sharply, his breath hot against my skin. The grip on my throat tightens hard enough to make my pulse hammer harder.

“You can do better than that.”

My chest heaves, panic choking me from the inside out. I can’t stop shaking. My pussy flutters around the glass, but there’s nowhere to go.

A sharp, splintering crack snaps through the air.

A frightened scream rips from my throat. My body jerks, but Zane doesn’t let me move. His arm bands around my stomach, keeping me pinned, making sure I stay impaled on the bottle.

My head snaps forward, and my eyes drop.

More cracks.

Spiderweb fractures bloom across the thick glass, spreading outward. My pussy clenches involuntarily, and fresh terror slams into me.

If this thing breaks inside me—

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck .

A knife would be instant. A clean, sharp cut. A quick death.

But this?

This would be slow. Excruciating. A nightmare of splintered glass and torn flesh and him watching me bleed out with that same amused smirk.

“You’re shaking.” He drags his teeth over the curve of my shoulder. “I wonder… is that fear, or are you just desperate for me to fuck you?”

My stomach turns, rage and terror twisting into something volatile. My lips part before I can think, before I can stop the words from spilling out.

“You break that inside me, and you won’t have anything left to fuck.”

His growl deepens, and his grip on the bottle tightens just slightly, like he’s contemplating it.

Fuck.

My mind is screaming at me to shut up, to fucking submit , but my mouth has never known when to quit.

Zane presses his face into my hair, inhaling the scent of my shampoo and fear.

“Then I guess I’ll have to pull the pieces out one by one,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. “And fuck you with my fingers.” He rolls the bottleneck, just enough to make me feel the rough edge scraping against my walls.

“Then my tongue,” he continues, dragging his teeth along my throat.

The bottle sinks deeper.

“And then my cock.”

My pussy clenches—fuck, why?—and I hear more splinters. More fractures crawling through the glass lodged inside me.

“Feel that, Faith?” His fingers tighten on the bottle. “Your greedy little cunt is making it worse.”

My walls pulse again, and he chuckles. Then he works the bottleneck deeper, stretching me around the glass. My breath shudders out of me, but I bite my tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He doesn’t fucking stop.

Every inch slides like a slow descent into madness, my body alight with pleasure and terror in equal measure. I hate him. I hate him. I hate—

I choke back a moan.

His mouth curls against my ear. “I think you like this.”

I bare my teeth. “I think you’re sick.”

“You’re not wrong.” He thrusts it shallowly, and I jerk, gasping. “Come for me.”

No.

If I come, it’s because my body is fucking stupid. Not because of him. Not because he made me.

I refuse.

But my own traitorous pussy is begging for something I won’t give him. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, shaking my head.

His grip tightens. “Come. Now.”

I snarl. “Go to hell.”

His growl is pure frustration, and he punishes me for it by twisting the bottle, pressing it deeper.

I can’t let him think he’s won. I can’t let him believe he owns this.

My fingers snap up to my clit, rubbing hard, chasing something of my own making.

If I’m going to come, it’ll be my fucking choice.

His breath hitches. “That’s it.”

He matches my rhythm, fucking the bottle inside me to the same brutal pace. His free hand trails down my stomach, pressing over my lower belly. Like he’s feeling how deep the bottle is.

“Good girl.”

Fuck. Fuck, I almost—

His name is at the tip of my tongue. Not in a curse. Not in contempt.

As a moan.

No.

I bite my lip, sharp enough to taste copper, swallowing the sound before it can escape. My body tightens, everything winding tighter and tighter. I’m close, so fucking close, but I won’t give him that.

“Say it,” he commands.

I shake my head, fighting it back.

“Say it,” he snarls, snapping his hips forward, making the bottle shift deep inside me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bite down harder. My entire body is trembling, teetering on the edge. His grip tightens in my hair, yanking my head back against his shoulder. “Fucking say it, Faith.”

It’s not a command. Not a demand. It’s a fucking promise.

And I shatter.

Pleasure slams into me as my body jerks, bowing hard against his chest. My mouth falls open in a silent scream before it rips free.

“Zane—!”

My walls convulse around the bottle. The sharp pressure inside me grows, twisting into something more, something that sears through me. I barely register the faint snap of glass beneath the waves of my orgasm, pleasure riding me so brutally I don’t care.

He snarls my name again and keeps fucking the bottle into me, dragging every last tremor, every last shock of pleasure, until I’m writhing against him.

My legs try to snap shut, but his knees keep them spread wide.

My pussy clenches too hard, and overstimulation slams into me like a brick wall.

I sob, gasping for breath, clawing at his forearm.

“Zane—fuck—stop, stop!”

He doesn’t.

He works the bottle deeper, coaxing out another sharp, unbearable orgasm. It hurts but it feels too good. I’m breaking apart at the seams, and he won’t fucking stop.

I’m begging, pleading, and finally he drags the bottle out of me.

I collapse against him, gasping for air. The absence leaves me hollow like something vital was ripped from my body. My pussy feels so numb I can’t tell if I’m bleeding, or if I’m even still whole.

Is this what it feels like to be torn apart from the inside?

I don’t know.

I don’t move. I don’t open my eyes. I’m too scared to.

My breath stutters, a single tear slipping down my cheek.

Another. I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, because I’m terrified of what might be waiting for me if I look.

I imagine shredded muscle and torn flesh, the glistening trail of my insides spilling out of my body.

It feels like I’ve been hollowed out, like my body has become a ruin built from agony.

This isn’t just pain—it’s the kind of destruction that only comes with dying from the inside out.

Zane doesn’t push me. He doesn’t tell me to look. He doesn’t say a word.

I don’t know how much time passes before I finally force myself to open my eyes. It takes everything. A wave of nausea hits me as I struggle to lift my lashes.

The first thing I see is his hand. Jagged pieces of glass are lodged deep in his palm, buried into the already torn flesh from the knife wound I gave him. The blood is smeared across his skin. I suck in a sharp breath, before jerking my gaze to the bottleneck.

It is cracked.

It is splintered.

But it is intact.

It didn’t shatter inside me.

Relief slams into me so hard my body sags again. “Thank God,” I whisper.

Zane chuckles, and my eyes snap to his. His stare is molten, heavy with satisfaction.

“Am I… am I okay?”

He lifts his bleeding hand, fingers curling around the bottle as he brings it to his lips. His tongue flicks out, dragging slowly along the glass, tasting the blood and come smeared across it. He groans deep in his chest, then licks it clean.

“You’re perfect.”

Nothing.

That’s all I feel at first. Not pain, not fear—just empty, bottomless nothing.

Then the rage slams into me.

It’s slow at first, curling hot in my belly, then spreading, climbing up my spine like a fucking wildfire. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out everything else.

He’s still watching me. That sick satisfaction still simmering in his molten gaze as his tongue drags one last time over the bottle, tasting the ruin he forced out of me.

Fucking bastard.

I shove him.

It’s barely anything. I expect resistance, expect him to tighten his grip, but he lets me go. I shouldn’t feel at ease. I should feel sick. Ashamed.

But I don’t.