Page 94 of Retrograde

“Riley, you’re doing so good,” I moan, my voice fractured, desperate, delirious. “It’s like your body was made for me.”

The little sounds of pleasure she makes mingle with mine as I start thrusting in slowly, savouring every tremor that runs through her body, every cry that slips past her lips. We’re both so close, even before I make it full length, burying myself into her to the hilt, my balls flush against her bloodied cheeks.

“You take me so well, Riley.”

She moans, torn between agony and ecstasy.

I circle her clit harder, giving her one final moment to adapt—a moment is all I can manage.

“Don’t stop,” she mewls. “Let me come.”

“Not yet, Hotshot,” I growl, barely able to breathe. “First, you are going to let me fuck you nice and deep. You’ll feel me for days after I’m done with you.”

I withdraw about halfway before pushing back inside her, and my head kicks back from sheer bliss. I thrust again and again, pulling back just a little further each time until I’m pumping my full length in and out of her.

She’s crying loudly, but arching her back at the same time, like she wants to beg me for more.

Letting go of her hip, I fist her hair at the base of her skull, hazelnut strands spilling over my fingers. I lean over her, feeling the heat of her body on my chest, both our bodies flush with sweat. I let go and wrap my fingers around her throat, her heartbeat thrumming underneath my fingertips. The new angle allows me to slip two of my fingers into her pussy at the front, slick and already spasming for me, her G-spot ripe and swollen.

“Look at you taking my cock in your ass like a filthy whore. What a good fucking girl.”

I quicken my pace, pleasure pooling at the base of my spine. The vulgar, wet sounds of our slapping flesh mingle with her cries and my moans, a depraved symphony.

She shudders, her inner walls lock, and she slams her hips into me, meeting my thrust. And it’s game over. My orgasm rips through me, and I spill into her with a protracted, guttural groan just as she breaks around me at the same time with a scream that bleeds into my name.

“Aron!”

Electricity rushing through me, my eyes roll to the back of my skull. But not before I take in the sight of my cum leaking from around my cock in her tight, wrecked hole, mingling with the drying blood smeared all over her.

Then both our limbs give in, and I collapse on top of her, her body so small in my hold, and her breath sweet and hot on my face, her lips a hair’s breadth away from mine. And before I know what the fuck I’m doing, I’m kissing her with my eyes closed, cradling her in my arms and whispering words of praise in her ear as she cries softly into my shoulder with a mixture of relief and dropping adrenaline.

I can’t let go of her, and that terrifies me. Never even mind who she is to me, and that the last thing she should get from me is aftercare. Because that’s not even the scary part of it. No, the scary part is that I haven’t done anything like this since I put on the skull mask.

Aron Krasnik may have loved girls, and he may have held them, and he may have cared. But not the Necromancer. There is no space for feelings in the life I’ve chosen to live. I fuck girls, and I give them a good time. But after I give them money instead of kisses. I discourage them from getting attached, and I sure as shit don’t get attached to them.

Which is why this—holding Riley, comforting her—shouldn’t feel so right. But it does. And the real stuff of nightmares is the dull ache gnawing at me on the inside.

Reminding me how much I fucking miss this.

35

THREE YEARS AGO, DARIA VOLKER

The dream is always the same. An endless spiral staircase, disappearing into dark depths, and the sound of feet behind me. My legs are like lead, heavy and boneless, and with each rushed step that I take, I stumble some more, the world destabilising. Until inevitably, I trip over, and I’m toppling, falling down and down without ever landing at the bottom.

I jerk awake to the sound of my mother’s voice. “Daria, honey! Are you nearly ready?”

I grab my phone from the nightstand and glance at the screen. 10.45. Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

I toss the slick, satin covers aside and rush to my wardrobe, deciding between the Papa-dearest-approved flowery dress and the Papa-dearest-will-throw-a-fit black number with a cleavage so deep you can see my belly button.

I was going to play the part of a good daughter today. But with the unsavoury aftertaste of that dream still fresh in my mouth, I settle on option two.

I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and line my eyes with black to match my outfit. Looking back at me from the mirror is a girl I would hardly have recognised two years ago. My hair is shiny black now and reaches my waist. I have an eyebrow piercing, a nose ring, and a tattoo behind each ear—not to mention other places.

“You don’t look anything like my daughter anymore!” Papa told me recently.