Page 48 of Psycho Obsession
“Say my name again,” I rasp, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. I can smell the heat coming off her, the scent of her sex thick enough to choke on. “Say it until you forget who the fuck gave it to you.”
I’m not going to finish. Not yet. I want her to ache. I want her to bleed. I want her to look into that mirror and see exactly what we are—two ghosts fucking in a graveyard, waiting for the sun to burn us to ash.
I pull my fingers out of her with a wet, mocking pop.
She gasps, her hips jerking upward, trying to chase the friction as the cold air hits the slick, pulsing heat of her. She’s staring at me, her chest heaving, her face a smeared disaster of black and red. The hunger in her eyes is ugly. It’s the kind of need that makes people eat glass just to feel something sharp.
“Why did you stop?” she snarls, her voice a jagged wreck. “Don’t you fucking quit on me.”
I step back, letting my hands hang at my sides. I look at her—really look at her—splayed out on that shattered vanity like a piece of roadkill I’m deciding whether to keep or bury.
“You want it that bad, Hallow?” I rasp. I reach down and slowly unbutton my fly, the metal of the zipper loud in the silence of the room. I don’t touch myself. I just let it hang there, thick and heavy, the veins thrumming with a pressure that feels like a lead pipe in my gut. “Look at it. Look at what you did.”
She looks. Her tongue darts out to lick her lip, her pupils swallow the green in her eyes until they’re just black pits of greed.
“You want the release? You think you’ve earned the right to cum?” I let out a low, humourless laugh. I grab a handful of her hair and yank her off the vanity. She hits the floor on her hands and knees, the glass shards biting into her palms. “Get up. Dance.”
“What?” she spits, looking up at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“You heard me. You were a dancer, right? That’s the lie Aris fed you. That’s the ‘grace’ he thought he could preserve.” I kick a piece of a broken chair out of the way. “Show me. Show me what a sick, needy little bitch youare. Dance for me. Make me hard. Make my cock so fucking hard it hurts to breathe, and maybe I’ll think about finishing what I started.”
She glares at me, the rage in her eyes so pure it could start a fire. She pushes herself up, her knees bleeding, her ruined gown hanging off one shoulder. She’s shaking with a mixture of fury and desperate, aching lust.
“I’ll kill you,” she whispers.
“Maybe. But right now, you’re going to move.”
She starts. It’s not a ballet. It’s a slow, rhythmic haunting. She moves through the flickering red shadows of the funhouse, her body swaying in a way that’s intentionally provocative and deeply, violently wrong. She’s watching me the whole time, her fingers tracing the scars on her ribs, her hand sliding down to the dampness between her legs, then bringing her fingers to her mouth to lick them clean while she stares at my cock.
She’s a fucking nightmare.
I feel the blood slam into my dick, the skin stretching until it feels like it’s going to tear. It hurts. It’s a dull, throbbing ache that matches the rhythm of her feet on the warped boards.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I growl, my hand twitching at my side. “Work for it, Hallow. Give me a reason to stay in this room instead of going out there and putting a bullet in our father’s head right now.”
She lets out a low, guttural sound and starts to move faster, her hips rolling, her hair whipping around her face. She’s a blur of bruised skin and smeared paint. She’s not dancing for the audience anymore; she’s dancing for the kill.
I’m standing there, my jaw locked sotight my teeth might shatter, watching her unmake herself just for a taste of me.
“Come here,” I command, my voice a broken, filthy growl.
She stops mid-motion, her chest heaving, her skin glistening with sweat. She crawls toward me on the floor, her eyes never leaving mine, until she’s at my boots.
She doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for me like I’m the last breath of air in a sinking ship, her fingers digging into my thighs, her nails drawing thin, red lines of heat through my skin.
I look down at her, the top of her head a mess of matted blonde hair and grey dust, and then I feel it.
The first graze of her teeth.
I let out a sound that isn’t human—a jagged, guttural roar that echoes off the warped mirrors. She isn’t being gentle. She doesn’t give a fuck about my comfort. She grips the base of my cock, her hand small and slick, and drags her teeth slowly, agonisingly along the underside. The sharp, stinging pressure of her incisors against the throbbing skin makes my vision explode into white sparks.
“F-fuck, Hallow,” I choke out, my hands slamming into the wall behind me, my knuckles cracking against the wood.
She looks up at me from the floor, her eyes feral, the black kohl smeared across her brow like a crown of thorns. She’s got the head of me between her lips, and she bites. Just enough to let me know she could take it off if she wanted to. Just enough to remind me who’s really in control of this agony.
“Is it hurting yet, Jex?” she mumbles, her voicevibrating against my skin, sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated filth straight to my brain. “Is it hard enough for you? Do you feel how much of a bitch I can be?”
I grab her by the hair, my fingers tangling in the knots, and yank her face closer, forcing her to take more of me. I’m shaking. My knees are ready to buckle. The ache in my gut is a screaming, living thing, a demand for the release she’s hoarding like a secret.
