Page 2 of His Dark Cravings

"Tell me you want this, Lila," I demand, my voice harsh in her ear. "Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Yes," she hisses, her wrists straining against the restraints. "I want you to fuck me, Xavier. Now."

I oblige, driving into her in one smooth stroke. She cries out, her pussy tight around me. I grasp her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh as I begin to pound into her, a relentless rhythm that has her moaning my name.

"That's it, Lila," I growl, my control slipping as I thrust into her. "Take it all."

Her breath comes in sharp pants, her body glistening with sweat. I lean forward, my mouth finding the sensitive spot below her ear, and bite down. She arches, her back bowing as she cries out my name.

I feel her climax building, her body tightening around me. I thrust harder, faster, driving her over the edge. She shatters, her cry echoing through the dungeon. I continue to thrust, relentless, as her body convulses around me.

"Xavier—" she breathes, her voice a plea.

I tighten my grip on her hips and thrust once, twice more, and come with a growl, spilling myself into her. I feel her shudder as I pull out, my release coating her back.

I step back, my breath ragged, and watch as she hangs there, her body glistening. My mark. My conquest.

Just another doll in my collection.

Later, after Lila dresses, the afterglow of our session clinging to the air like smoke, she leans against the doorway, watching me with an unnervingly perceptive gaze. Her black curls, usually a wild halo around her face, are now damp and plastered to her forehead.

“You’ll never keep one, will you?” she asks, her voice quiet, devoid of its usual playful lilt.

“Keep who?” I ask, feigning ignorance. But her words strike a chord, a discordant note.

“A woman. A real woman.” She shrugs, a careless gesture that belies the weight of her words. “They all leave eventually.”

“They choose to leave,” I correct her, but the lie tastes like ash in my mouth.

They leave because I push them away. Because I don’t know how to do anything else. Control is all I understand. Control and the fleeting illusion of connection it provides.

Lila smiles, a sad, knowing twitch of her lips. “Sure they do.”

She turns and walks away, her hips swaying with each step. The sound of her departure fades, leaving a silence that presses in on me. The dungeon door clangs shut, the heavy metal like a cage I’ve built around myself. Not for them, for me.

I’m alone again.

I stare at the empty restraints, the ghost of Lila’s perfume clinging to them. They all leave eventually. A bitter truth I’ve grown accustomed to.

I pour myself a drink. Scotch. Neat. The burn as it slides down my throat is a familiar comfort. Lila’s right, of course. I don’t keep them. I can’t. They’re butterflies, drawn to the flame, flitting around the edges of my darkness. Sooner or later, they realize the heat will consume them, and they fly away.

My father… he had a way with women, too. A different way. His hands, rough from years of labor, were not instruments of pleasure, but weapons. My mother… her eyes, once vibrant, grew dull under his reign. Control, he called it. Discipline. A twisted justification for his cruelty.

I learned early that affection was a weakness, vulnerability a dangerous game. I built walls, brick by brick, around my heart. Control became my shield, my armor against the chaos of emotion. The women… they’re a distraction. A fleeting escape from the hollowness that gnaws at me. A temporary fix for a wound that never heals.

I swirl the scotch in my glass, the ice clinking softly. Lila, Winter, Sable… they’re all the same. Different faces, different bodies, but the same hunger. Not for me but for what I can give.

The memory of my mother’s bruised face flashes before my eyes. Her silent tears. My fists clench, the glass creaking in my grip. I close my eyes, the image burning behind my eyelids.

No, sessions with the dolls never help.

They’re all asleep now—or at least most of them—tucked away in their silken nests, dreaming their little dreams. I picture the next doll. The next conquest. The next fleeting escape from the emptiness that gnaws at me. Who will she be?

And how long will she last?

Chapter 1

Everly

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