Page 51 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

He stands up and turns on me again. “She doesn’t want you. She’s just scared. And you’re so drunk on it, you can’t fucking see straight. You think it’s lust. You think the way her pussy clenches when you’re near means something.”

He steps closer.

“It doesn’t because she’ll scream the loudest when someone else fucks her first.”

The grin on my face dies.

“You shut your fucking mouth about her,” I snarl.

He laughs harder, even as blood pools in his mouth.

“Why? Scared I’ll ruin her too?” He shoves against my chest. “You’re on death row, Zane.

And I’ll be out in fifteen years. You bet your ass I’ll find her.

I’ll pull her into some dark alleyway when she least expects it.

I’ll shove her up against the bricks so hard she won’t even get a scream out.

Then I’ll rape her and show her what a real monster looks like. ”

My pulse detonates and my body moves before I think.

My fist cracks across his face. His head snaps sideways and collides with the wall behind him with a dull thunk. He slides but I catch him by the shirt and throw him onto the bunk. The mattress groans under his weight as he sprawls on it.

I’m over him before he can suck in a breath, my hand clamping around his throat. “If you ever mention her again, I won’t stop. I’ll make you beg to die. And I’ll take my fucking time.”

Mark’s cry cracks out of him. His hands don’t go up to stop me. His knees pull in, but he’s not fighting, he’s folding.

“Do it,” he gasps. “You have to do it, Zane. Just fucking do it.”

His eyes shimmer with something close to madness.

“I’ve got nothing left. At least when I walked into this shithole, I had something to hold onto. Now? I’ll die here. Alone. Just finish it.”

My grip tightens for a beat.

Then I let go.

He gasps for breath, rubbing at his throat as he curls sideways on the bunk, coughing.

I stay hunched over him, every shaky inhale is a reminder of how hard I’m fighting to stay upright. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to goad me into it. Using Faith as bait because he wants out. Wants a way to end it that looks like someone else’s choice.

But even in this fucked-up mess of trauma and broken will, I won’t let him use Faith. That line isn’t getting crossed. I don’t give a fuck how cracked he is.

He wants to spiral?

Fine.

But I’m not letting him disrespect my girl.

So I do the only thing I know how to do.

I take control.

I rise and grip the waistband of his trousers as he blinks in confusion, still panting. The mattress shifts beneath us when I straddle his thigh.

“What… what are you—?”

I tug his pants down. His cock’s soft, curled limp against his thigh. I grab his wrist and bring his hand to his cock and force his fingers around it. He stiffens, but I don’t let go.

“What’s her name?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

I squeeze his wrist and guide his hand to move with steady pressure along his cock.

I press my mouth closer and let my breath trickles down his neck. “Her name.”

“Khloe.”

The name sticks in my throat. “With a K?”

He nods, barely.

I shift my grip to control the pace, and I feel his cock twitching against his own reluctant hand as blood starts to rush back in.

“Tell me about her.”

His jaw locks.

I tighten the pressure. The strokes slow to a crawl.

He shakes his head.

I bring my lips against the shell of his ear. “I’ll stop,” I threaten. “Leave you here hard and hating yourself. I’ll take that little bit of control back and leave you with the mess.”

His throat works beneath the bruises as he swallows, and I wonder if he’s about to shut me out again.

“She had these brown eyes...”

“What kind of brown?” I ask, dragging it out of him inch by inch.

“ Fuck-me brown,” he breathes. “That kind of warm, deep brown that makes your knees shake if she looks at you too long.”

His wrist moves a little easier now. I keep it steady. Just enough friction to make him forget the cell walls, the shame, everything but her.

“Keep going,” I entice.

“She has olive skin, sun-kissed and smooth, nothing dry or flaking the way the girls around here fake with bronzer. She barely wore makeup. Didn’t need to. Her lashes were thick, curving upward with the perfection of a painted portrait.”

He sucks in a shaky breath.

“Her nose had this little bump on the bridge from when she broke it surfing, and she never got it fixed. She said it gave her face character. She was right.”

The strokes quicken slightly, sufficient to keep him from losing momentum.

“Her lips were…” He groans, closing his eyes. “Fuck. Full. Soft. The top one was shaped like a damn heart. She used to chew on it when she was nervous. Or horny. Or both.”

The tip of his cock is flushed now, leaking a little as his hand glides under my grip.

“What else?”

“She had this freckle,” he reminisces, “just under her left eye. Small. Easy to miss. But when I kissed her face, I always aimed for it first.”

“What did she like?” I press. “When she moaned, what got her there?”

“She—” He shakes his head. “Stop.”

“Did she ride your cock?” My grip tightens around his wrist, forcing a full stroke from base to tip. His cock’s harder now. “Or did she get on her knees and open her mouth like a good little slut?”

“Zane—”

I jerk his hand again with a sharp motion as wet sounds start to fill the space between us, pre-cum sliding down his shaft. “ Answer .”

He snaps his eyes open and stares at me. “Both.”

His hand spasms once, then twice, before it starts moving on its own. It’s not fast or frantic, just steady. Like shame and arousal are bleeding into each other and he’s too fucked to stop it.

I ease off, but I don’t let go completely. My fingers stay on his wrist.

“She’d ride me until she collapsed.” His lashes sweep low in slow, unhurried passes. “Her hair would fall into her face and then she’d crawl between my legs and suck out every last drop.”

“Did she gag on your cock?”

His knuckles tighten. “Yeah.”

“Spit everywhere?”

A slow nod.

“Did you come on her face?”

His lips part as his hand begins to move faster.

“Tell me.” I let my voice drop to a taunt. “Did she beg for it?”

I lean in closer, watching his eyes glaze.

He doesn’t answer, so I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back, forcing his gaze to meet mine.

“Did she beg for it?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, the only anchor keeping him tethered to this reality. But his hips shamelessly roll up into his hand. He’s not putting an effort to hide it.

“She’d whisper my name like she was dying,” he rasps. “She used to cry afterward, saying I ruined her.”

I grin.

“You like that? Watching her fall apart on your cock?”

His face turns away. “God, yes.”

“You ever fuck her mouth while she sobbed?”

A choked sound rips from his throat.

“She’d choke on it and grab my hips so I wouldn’t stop,” he blurts.

His hand speeds up. I slip my hold from his wrist, retreating completely to let him do all the work. I don’t need to guide him anymore. The shame is gone, or buried so deep under the memory that it can’t reach the surface.

I watch him as his chest rises too fast and his legs stay tense. Each pump of his fist drags a needy, wrecked sound from his lungs.

“You miss her pussy wrapped around you?”

He groans loudly this time as his hips buck.

“Bet she clenched so hard she milked your cock dry,” I whisper. “Didn’t she?”

His hand flies as his knuckles blur. His body locks, every muscle pulled tight as his neck cranes and his mouth slacks open.

“Fuck—fuck—Khloe—”

He comes with a sob. Hot, sticky release spills across his stomach and hand as his trembling fingers struggle to keep pace with the spasms.

Mark’s chest rises and falls in shaky bursts, but they start to slow. His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, lashes wet, jaw slack, still flushed and marked where my grip had locked around his throat.

I push off the bunk and stand.

My feet hit the floor as I walk to the metal shelf at the far end of his cell. I pull open the drawer and grab the towel he uses after showers. I wipe the streaks of his come off my hand. Behind me, I hear the soft rustle of fabric. I turn but he won’t look at me.

I toss the towel to him anyway. It lands on his chest, and he grabs it. Neither of us says anything. I turn toward the door and make it two steps before his voice stops me.

“Can I ask you something?”

I halt mid-step, tossing a look over my shoulder, one brow arching in question.

“Why did you let Terry die?”

“I didn’t,” I say, turning fully towards him.

He frowns with the towel clenched tightly in his lap.

I let him in on the plan about how Terry and I spent six months digging a tunnel straight out from his cell. And Mark listens like I just told him Mickey Mouse was real and passing out golden tickets in the yard.

“We were on our way out, crawling through that tunnel,” I continue, the memory lighting up behind my eyes. “Terry had a contact on the outside. A truck waiting past the north fence. We thought it was bulletproof.”

I step away from the wall and move slowly back into the center of the cell, not close—just far enough that I can pace.

“But we didn’t know about the explosives buried beneath the foundation.

” I flex my fingers. “Security had planted motion-based sensors when they detected movement, they activated the detonator. It wasn’t supposed to cause real harm, just chaos so that the guards knew.

But Terry had smuggled his own stash of explosives as part of our escape plan. ”

I move to the far side of the cell and drag a chair closer, spinning it and dropping into it backwards. My forearms rest across the back.

“The second his boot touched that pressure plate, it was over. The explosion was powerful enough to tear through everything in its path, obliterating walls, scattering debris, and leaving nothing but smoke, fire, and fragments of Terry’s DNA.”

“And you… you left him.”

“I ran,” I admit. “Yeah. I ran like a coward. I was supposed to go first. But Terry insisted. Said I had more to offer if shit went wrong. Said he was expendable. So I let him lead.”

“I’m sorry,” he slurs the words quietly. “I didn’t know.”

I look at him, not with anger and not with regret, but with the brutal and ugly truth laid bare in my eyes.

“No one did,” I murmur. “That’s how I like it.”