Page 83 of Horror and Chill

Her nails scrape against the stone slab, desperate for something to hold on to. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Her body’s already arching toward me, slick and ready.

I push in with one thrust, savoring the stretch, the way her walls fight me and cling all at once. Her mouth opens on a cry. I bury myself deeper, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt.

“God,” she gasps, voice cracking.

My jaw clenches. I start to move. Long, hard strokes that make her tits bounce against her chest, make her back scrape the stone. Every thrust pries another noise out of her, curses tangled with moans. I take it all, feed on it, driving into her harder, deeper.

Her legs hook around my hips, pulling me closer, like she’s betraying herself with every movement. I slam into her, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down my spine.

“Say it,” I growl. “Say you need it.”

She shakes her head, panting. “I hate you.”

I grin. “Good. Hate me while you come.”

Her walls clench around me. I thrust faster, rougher, fucking her through the denial until she breaks again, body bowing under me, scream echoing through the crypt. I don’t stop, not until she’s quaking and clawing at me like she doesn’t know whether to shove me off or hold me in.

I snarl, slam into her once more, and spill inside, pulse after pulse, filling her until it leaks between us. My body shudders, and a series of low growls leave my throat.

“Perfect,” I rasp. “You’re perfect when you hate me like this.”

I drag myself out of her in one long pull, cock slick and aching, her body trembling under me. She gasps like I just tore something from her, head tipped back against the cold slab.

Reaching for the straps at my temples, I tug the mask back down until the filters lock over my mouth again. The leather seals tight, hot breath filling the inside, fogging the glass.

I turn from her, rolling my shoulders once. My boots scrape stone as I tug my joggers back into place, the fabric rough against my skin. Then I move toward the wall, mask hiding the half-smile she doesn’t get to see.

34

Evander

I stepout from the shadows of the crypt and move toward Agatha. She’s sprawled there, chest rising fast, skin still damp with Garron’s touch. It’s my turn.

I plant a hand on the cold stone beside her head, leaning down until my voice is the only thing she can hear. “You’re mine now, Little Horror.”

Her chin tips up, defiance still burning. “You think so?”

I smile slowly. “I know so.”

The mask is hot against my skin, filters humming with every breath. I’ve hidden behind it long enough. And if her fans are still watching, if every hungry bastard glued to her channel sees my face, good. Let them know I'm not a shadow, not a game. I'm real. I'm hers. We are all in.

I rip the straps loose, let the mask fall with a hollow thud against the stone. Cool air hits my face, sharp after hours of recycled breaths. Her eyes widen, pupils swallowing the color as she realizes what I’ve given her.

No turning back. No pretending this is a game anymore. She knows it. I know it. And so does the camera.

I grab her under the arms, pulling until her head tips over the edge of the slab. Her hair spills toward the floor, her throat bare, her chest rising fast.Perfect.

The pickaxe rests against the stone, forgotten by everyone. Prop or not, it feels heavy in my hand. I lift it, let the head hover just above her lips. “Open.”

Her lips press thin, eyes flashing. “Make me,” she whispers.

“That wasn't a request.”

Her breath hitches. For a second, she holds out, jaw tight. Then her lips part, slow and stubbornly, letting the prop edge slide past her teeth.

“Good girl,” I murmur.

Her tongue drags along the side, syrup sticking, cocoa bitter in her mouth. She gags once, a sharp noise, but I don’t pull back. I push the prop deeper until the handle grazes her tongue, until she has no choice but to suck around it.