Page 91 of Tar City
His hand comes up, his thumb hooking the corner of my mouth, pulling it open, then his index finger joins, prying my jaw wider. I’m helpless, trapped, my mouth a perfect, willing O. Helowers his head, lips hovering just above mine. His breath ghosts over my tongue—hot, furious, controlled only by inches.
He spits in my mouth. His palm is there a second later, smothering any reaction, pressing my jaw shut. It's like the room inhales with him, every dust mote suspended, waiting to see what I'll do with what he's given me. I swallow.
Shame and desire, twisted tightly, rush through me. I should be disgusted. I should scream. Instead, I nearly come on the spot.
Only then does he speak. “Look at me,” he commands, and my body responds. His red eyes, furious and glowing, stare down into mine. “This is mine,” he says, thumb dragging down my lips like he’s marking territory. “This throat. This voice. These breaths.”
A small tremor shakes the table near the bed. Something on the shelf tips—then rights itself. His thumb presses again, light but commanding. “You want to play games?” He leans in until our noses almost touch, “You play them with me.” He grazes my lips with his tongue. “If someone is going to tie you up and fuck you until you forget your own name…” A pause. A pulse. The towel at my waist flutters—without touch. “It’s going to be me.”
I can’t speak. My throat locks with shock and want. But I sure as hell think to myself:mission accomplished.
He straightens me up slowly, releasing me and the pressure in the room. The towel pools fully at my waist, like it knows better than to move without permission. The brush lifts—without his hand. It floats for half a second, then lands on the nightstand.
“Arms up.”
I obey, raising my arms overhead like I’m surrendering to more than just him. He slides a t-shirt over me—his shirt. The fabric drags over my skin sending goose bumps to my arms. His hands are no longer gentle. He's dressing me like I'm his to takecare of. The cotton is soft, worn, and it smells like him: smoke and clean soap. It swallows me, the hem brushing mid-thigh. I want to ask for panties, but something tells me he won’t grant me that tonight.
Now that I’ve opened this door, I can see he’s right where he belongs. And what does it say about me that I like him that way? That the possessiveness, the raw edge of violence, the barely leashed magic in his blood… turns me on.
His hands linger on my hips and I wonder if he’s done making his point—or if he’s just getting started. “When I walked away last night,” he admits, his thumb pausing on the inside of my thigh, “it was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.”
The lamp beside us flickers.
“And I have done some horrible things,” he adds.
He hovers over me. “The way I want you…” His voice catches. “…it scares the shit out of me.”
The lamp flickers again, but neither of us blink.
“Because,” he goes on, slower now, like every word is a weight, “it’s impossible to stay in control when you are around. And if you ever let someone else touch you the way I want to touch you…”
A pause thick enough to drown in.
“…I might actually kill them. The curse is getting stronger and I can’t stop it if you push me.”
It’s not a threat, it’s a confession, and it wrecks me more than any warning ever could.
I’m torn between the urge to run—and the overwhelming desire to climb into his lap and beg.
His voice dips lower, “And I think…” he says, his palms still rest on my thighs, “that you knew exactly what you were doing when you asked me that question. Didn’t you?”
I nod.
He grips my hips, fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor me to the bed. “I have tried to let you go. I have actually tried to walk away, to let you be free and happy and untouched by my curse. I’ve even started to count the cost of killing every single one of your past partners just to be the only one who’s ever touched you. Fuck, I still think about it.”
He looks at me. “But I can’t hold back anymore. It might be the tar, it might be the moon, but it might be all me. And if you give a single fuck about their lives, you’re going to stay put. You’re going to obey me. You’re going to let me do whatever I want you to, even if that means leaving you sore until you can’t walk. If I tell you to eat, you’ll eat. If I tell you to sleep, you’ll sleep. And if I tell you to stay the fuck away from another man—or woman, you will.” His lips graze the shell of my ear. ”Unless you want to watch me bloody their pussy-ass faces.”
His hand slides up to my neck. “From now on, you’ll listen.”
I don't argue.
“This mouth,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging across my lips, pressing inside just enough for me to feel the edge of his nail. His other hand flattens possessively over my stomach before sliding lower, his fingers delving through my wet pussy. I gasp as he sinks one knuckle deep, then two, “This pussy.” His other hand moves, and I feel a slick, probing pressure against my other entrance. “And this ass.” He tries to slide a finger inside, an inexorable invasion that has me arching off the bed. The dual sensation is overwhelming, a fullness that steals my breath. He holds it there, his fingers pushing in both places, a claim staked in the most intimate way possible.
“All of it,” he growls. “Because make no mistake, I’ll be your first again.”
I shake slightly. “How do?—?”
“Of course, I can tell. I can feel it in the way you clench around my finger, how tight you are. You’ve saved this little hole for me, haven’t you? I’m going to take what’s mine. Again.”
