Page 33 of Crown of Blood

He’s wrecking me. And I want more.

God help me, I want more.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he snarls. “I’m going to come so deep inside this cunt you’ll taste me for days.”

My thighs shake. My core pulses. I want to scream at him to stop—and I want to beg him to never stop again.

His fingers dig into my thighs, rough and merciless. I’ll find the bruises later. His fingerprints stamped into my flesh like proof. Red crescents of ownership.

And somehow I already know I won’t stop staring at them.

“Please,” I whisper.

That breaks him.

He slams in deeper, hips snapping with brutal force. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that isn’t sweet or soft. It’s war. A collision of teeth and tongue and blood.

He kisses like he fucks—like it’s a battle and he’s already won.

“Come,” he growls against my lips. “Now. On my cock. Let them all hear who you belong to.”

His words tip me over the edge.

I come with a cry I can’t silence, the kind of orgasm that shatters something essential. Shame rises with it, because even as I splinter around him, even as my body clings to his like he’s oxygen and I’m drowning…

I want him. I want this. And that truth is the sharpest betrayal of all.

My whole body clenches around him, pulsing, aching.

And when I feel him follow me—when I feel him groan low and dark andspillinside me—I know it’s done.

There’s no going back.

The worst part? I didn’t hate it. I begged for it. And tomorrow, I’ll lie to myself and say I didn’t mean it. That I didn't choose this.

Except I did. Just like I did in that hotel room.

Ididchoose all of this.

He leans down, his mouth capturing mine in a savage kiss that feels like he's just sealed our fate for eternity. His tongue invades my mouth, mimicking the thrusts of his cock, and then finally, he lays down beside me.

I stare at the ornate ceiling, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. The carved angels mock me from above, their faces twisted into something that looks more like judgment than salvation.

My body aches. Throbs. Burns. But not from pain.

Fromwant.

I press my thighs together, feeling the evidence of what just happened slick between them. My skin bears his marks—fingerprints on my hips, bite marks on my breasts, the burning fire of his hand around my throat.

Beside me, Luca's breathing starts to slow.

I don't dare look at him. Can't bear to see the triumph I know will be etched across his face. Instead, I watch the shadows play across his chest from the corner of my eye, making his tattoos seem to move like living things.

The tattoo bishop over his heart seems to stare at me. Accusing.You let him take you. You begged for it.

My eyes burn. With tears? Rage? I'm not sure anymore.

I turn on my side slowly, taking inventory of every ache. My thighs burn. My lips feel swollen. There's a tender spot on my neck from his teeth. Each twinge is a reminder of what I've become—what I allowed myself to become.

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