Page 23 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

I dreamt of Atticus standing over me, a dangerous smile playing on his lips, his eyes dark with desire and something else—something primal and possessive. “Good morning, Bluebell,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

I dreamt of him running his hands over my body, tracing the curves of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips.

I dreamt of him pinching my nipples, hard, making me gasp and arch my back, the pleasure mixing with the pain, heightening my senses, making me crave more. But it wasn’t enough.

I woke with a start, body flushed, skin sensitive, core throbbing with need.

I was so wet, so ready. I looked at the kindle, still clutched in my hand, the battery almost dead.

I had been so engrossed in the book, so lost in the story, that I hadn’t noticed the time passing, hadn’t noticed the kindle was dying, or that I was drifting off to sleep.

I put it on the nightstand, heart racing overtime, my body still aching with need.

I knew I should be thinking of Marvin, of his kind eyes and gentle touch, of the safe, quiet life he offered me.

But all I could think about was Atticus, about the way he made me feel alive, about the way he made me want to sin.

I was drawn to him, pulled in by his dark charm, his dangerous smile, his intense gaze.

I slid my hand under the covers, my fingers finding my clit, rubbing in slow circles, imagining it was Atticus’s tongue on me, his fingers inside me, pumping in and out, building me higher and higher.

I bit my lip, stifling a cry as I slid two fingers inside, my palm pressing against my clit, mimicking the movements of my fantasy.

I tried to pinch my clit, hard, the way I had imagined he would when I was asleep, but my fingers weren’t rough enough, didn’t provide the sting I craved.

So, I slapped myself, as hard as I could, the sound of my hand connecting with my pussy echoing in the quiet room, a sharp, obscene smack that sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through my core.

The sensation was electric, a harsh, stinging reminder of the pleasure that lay just out of reach. But still, it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed him. I slapped myself again, trying harder this time, the sound more pronounced, the wet slapping noise echoing around the room.

The sting radiated through my core, making me cry out, making me arch my back, making me beg for more.

“Atticus,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, my body trembling with need.

“Please. Make me come. Take me, use me, make me your dirty little whore. I want it. I need it. I need you to ruin me. I need you to be rough, to hurt me, to fulfill these dark fantasies.”

The sound of my hand against my flesh was a harsh, brutal rhythm, a counterpoint to the pounding of my heart, the aching of my core. I could feel the heat building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, the need growing more urgent, more desperate. But it still wasn’t enough.

A sinking feeling that only Atticus could satisfy the dark, twisted needs that were consuming me.

And then I was there, teetering on the edge, my body balanced on a tightly coiled tension unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and I let go, falling into the abyss, my orgasm ripping through me, rushing over me.

I cried out, my voice raw, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless, spent, and utterly ruined.

My toes curled, my back arched, and my body shook as I rode out the storm, fingers still moving, drawing out the pleasure, imagining Atticus’s cock pulsing inside me, his hot seed spilling into my womb, marking me as his.

The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain, of satisfaction and longing, of completion and an emptiness I did not know what to do with.

As I came down from my high, I lay there, my body weak and boneless, the quilt tossed aside, my skin flushed and sweaty.

My breathing slowed, shallow and shaky, the air in the room thick with the scent of heat and shame.

My body sank deeper into the mattress, limbs loose, useless.

I stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows crawl along the plaster like ghosts—silent witnesses to what I’d just done.

I shouldn't have. But God, I needed it. I turned onto my side and pulled the pillow tight to my chest, burying my face into the worn fabric like it might hold his scent. It didn’t.

Of course it didn’t. It just smelled like detergent and dust and desperation.

But I imagined it anyway—pretended it was his shirt, his skin, his breath on my neck as he growled that name again in my ear. Little girl. Bluebell. Gennie girl.

My stomach clenched, shame curdling with something far more dangerous.

Longing. Raw and stupid and starved. I hated this.

Hated the emptiness of the bed, the cold feel of my own fingers, the hollow echo of his absence after imagining him inside me— controlling me, ruining me.

There was a hole inside me only he could fill, and I didn’t even know him. Not really. But it didn’t matter.

Because something inside me already belonged to him.

And I didn’t know how to take it back. I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose, willing the trembling in my legs to stop.

The silence of the house pressed in around me, thick and heavy.

It should have soothed me, but it didn’t.

It made me feel exposed. Unseen and still too visible, like I was glowing in the dark, still marked by the thoughts I’d let myself have.

Still wet with the memory of what I imagined he’d do to me.

Sleep didn’t come easy, not with the way my mind clung to him like a fever. But eventually, the dark pulled me under, and even in my dreams, I felt him there. Behind me. Inside me. Watching.