Page 25 of Little Author

T here was no foreplay.

No lead-in. No careful undoing of clothes or whispered promises.

I climbed into his lap while the blood was still warm on my thighs.

His hand gripped the back of my neck before I could settle, dragging me forward with a groan that sounded more like need than pleasure.

“Don’t hide from me. I want all of you, Elodie Tullie. Every sharp, tantalizing edge.”

Our mouths collided in a sloppy, fevered, teeth-grazing lip-smashing snog. His tongue tasted like copper and gin, while mine tasted like ash.

He grabbed my hips, hard enough to bruise, but I didn’t care.

I wanted him violent. I wanted him raw. I wanted to feel him split me apart until nothing inside me felt human anymore.

I moaned into his mouth as he pushed me down, no teasing, no warning, just fucking thrusting into me with abandon. I felt the hard stretch, thick and blunt. It made my spine arch and my breath rush out of me like I’d been punched.

“God, Roux…” I hissed, but he caught my jaw in his hand and turned my face toward his.

“God? Little Author,” he growled. “No. No, God. I am your master. Your Maestro. Sing for me. Sing for me.”

His hips snapped up, and I cried out. I needed the pain. The slick, hot dragging of him inside me was like being gutted and reborn all at once. My nails clawed down his back, catching on almost-dried blood. His or mine, though? I didn’t know.

I didn’t care.

He held me with possession, like something he’d earned by burning down every good thing in me. And I let him. I moved with him, rode every thrust he gave me with one of my own.

I bit his shoulder when it became too much, making sure he felt the pain too. Made him bleed for me. Hissed when he slapped my ass so hard the sound echoed off the fucking walls.

He was shaking, and so was I.

I’d never felt so alive, so seen…so heard.

“That’s it, Little Author. Let me hear you. Sing for me, Elodie.”

I screamed my release, my eardrums nearly shattering at the sick, aching joy of finall y being free of pretending.

No guilt.

No shame.

No softness.

Only this.

Only him.

“Say it,” he rasped into my throat, as his fingers slid between my legs, wet and trembling and ruined.

“Say you’re mine, Little Author. Tell me you belong to your monster.”

“I’m yours.” I gasped. “I’m yours, Roux…fuck…please…”

He came inside me.

Hard.

Shuddering and growling, with his hands fisting my hair, he held me down on him, pulsing thick and hot inside me. I clenched around him, chasing my own end with no grace, no dignity, just the feral rhythm of a woman who had finally let the monster off its leash and fucking loved every second of it.

When I came again, I bit his neck, hard enough to break skin and to feel his blood.

Taste it.

His hand curled around my throat, choking me, steadying me, claiming me. His other hand cradled the back of my head, tender and savage at the same time.

I collapsed against his chest, and his hands let go of my neck.

We were both slick with blood, sweat, and everything else.

He stroked my spine with slow fingers.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “So fucking beautiful like this. Ruined for anyone else. My perfect creation.”

“I was always ruined.” I smiled against his skin.

He kissed my temple, my cheek, my forehead. “No. You were just waiting for the right ending.”

He was right.

I was waiting.

Waiting for him.

For this.

For the death of the girl who wanted to be saved.

And for the birth of the monster who didn’t.