Page 42 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“Yes.”

A wrapper tears. His body returns behind mine. Heat presses against my entrance. Waiting. Callum removes the blindfold. Candlelight rushes back into focus. He wants me to see. I turn my head. The Scarecrow towers over me, one hand planted beside my bound wrists and the other gripping my hip.

“Look at me.”

I stare into the blackened eyes of his mask.

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.”

“Tell me you want to leave.”

“I don’t.”

“Tell me you don’t belong here.”

I push backward against him. He groans.

“I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Callum drives into me. The first thrust steals my voice. He fills me slowly, stretching my body around him until pleasure and pressure become indistinguishable. He stops when his hips meet mine. Neither of us moves. His chest rises against my back.

“You okay?”

The question is strained. I nod.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

“Pain?”

“Three.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Do you want me to move?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I tighten around him deliberately.

“Like you waited a year.”

Callum fucking breaks.

CALLUM

Every fantasy I had about taking Sloane was inadequate. Nothing prepared me for the feel of her body opening around me. Nothing prepared me for hearing her ask me to lose control. I withdraw slowly. Then drive back inside her tight aching pussy. The altar strikes the stone floor. Sloane cries out. I do it again. Harder.

Her fingers curl around the edges of the wood. The ropes tighten but hold safely, keeping her exactly where she asked to be while I thrust into her. Her body grips me. Hot. Wet. Perfect.

I wrap her hair around my fist and draw her upper body away from the altar. Her back bows. Her head falls against my shoulder. The stitched mouth of my mask presses against her cheek.