Page 30 of Soul to Possess

And then I was there, teetering on the edge, my body balanced on a knife's blade, and I let go, falling into the abyss, my orgasm ripping through me like a tsunami. I cried out, my voice raw, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless, spent, and utterly ruined.

As I came down from my high, I slid to the floor, my body weak and boneless, the water cascading over me, cooling my flushed skin. I had given in to the fantasy, and it had been worth it. But I knew, as I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, that the real thing would be so much more intense.

I knew I shouldn't want him, that I should be running far, far away. But the hateful truth was, I didn't know what I wanted. I only knew the stories I had read on my kindle, the dark, twisted fantasies that left me aching for more every time I read them. And Atticus, with his dark eyes and dangerous smile, was the embodiment of every one of those fantasies.

The force of the desires that had consumed me was startling to me, as I hadn’t thought myself kinky at all prior to meeting him. I enjoyed a lot of really naughty, smut-filled books, but that didn’t mean I wanted those things to actually happen to me. I was a good girl, or so I thought. I had always imagined that I would end up with someone like Marvin, someone safeand predictable, not someone who would turn my world upside down and make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

Yet, when faced with a situation where it was a possibility, my mind could not steer away from the subject, I could not tear my thoughts away from the dark, scary object of my fascination.. I grabbed a towel, quickly drying off, my skin flushed and sensitive from the shower.

I could still feel the phantom touch of Atticus’s hands on my body, his mouth on my neck, his cock pressing against me. Despite the fact that I had already come, heat spiraled through me. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that throbbed between them, but it was no use. I was wet, soaking wet, and I knew it was because of him, because of the dark, twisted things he somehow made me want without even trying.

I snuck back into my room, locking the door behind me as if that could keep him out, keep his influence away. I put on a pair of pajamas, something soft and comfortable, and climbed into bed, drawing the quilt up over me and tucking it under my chin.

I had my kindle in hand, a barrier between me and the real world, a way to escape the turmoil that was raging inside me. All I needed was a good book, something to immerse myself into and get my mind away from the muscled-up, inky, green-eyed wolf of a man in the next room. I needed to forget the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel, the way he made me want things I shouldn’t.

I lost myself in a recent release from one of my favorite authors, a dark romance with an anti-hero who was as twisted and broken as Atticus. The need from before began to fade into the recesses of my mind as I got lost in another universe, a place where I was in control, where I could explore my darkest desires safely. As page after page was flipped through and read, my eyesgrew heavy, and I drifted off to sleep, the kindle still clutched in my hand.

But even as I slept, I couldn’t escape him. He invaded my dreams, his dark eyes haunting me, his voice whispering in my ear, his hands roaming over my body. I dreamt of waking up to find myself tied to the bed, my wrists and ankles bound with thick, rough rope that bit into my skin. I was naked, exposed, vulnerable, and at his mercy.

I dreamt of Atticus standing over me, a dangerous smile playing on his lips, his eyes dark with desire and something else—something primal and possessive. “Good morning, Bluebell,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

I dreamt of him running his hands over my body, tracing the curves of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. I dreamt of him pinching my nipples, hard, making me gasp and arch my back, the pleasure mixing with the pain, heightening my senses, making me crave more. But it wasn’t enough.

I woke with a start, body flushed, skin sensitive, core throbbing with need. I was so wet, so ready. I looked at the kindle, still clutched in my hand, the battery almost dead. I had been so engrossed in the book, so lost in the story, that I hadn’t noticed the time passing, hadn’t noticed the kindle was dying, or that I was drifting off to sleep.

I put it on the nightstand, heart racing overtime, my body still aching with need. I knew I should be thinking of Marvin, of his kind eyes and gentle touch, of the safe, quiet life he offered me. But all I could think about was Atticus, about the way he made me feel alive, about the way he made me want to sin.

I was drawn to him, pulled in by his dark charm, his dangerous smile, his intense gaze. I slid my hand under thecovers, my fingers finding my clit, rubbing in slow circles, imagining it was Atticus’s tongue on me, his fingers inside me, pumping in and out, building me higher and higher. I bit my lip, stifling a cry as I slid two fingers inside, my palm pressing against my clit, mimicking the movements of my fantasy.

I tried to pinch my clit, hard, the way I had imagined he would when I was asleep, but my fingers weren’t rough enough, didn’t provide the sting I craved. So, I slapped myself, as hard as I could, the sound of my hand connecting with my pussy echoing in the quiet room, a sharp, obscene smack that sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through my core.

The sensation was electric, a harsh, stinging reminder of the pleasure that lay just out of reach. But still, it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed him. I slapped myself again, trying harder this time, the sound more pronounced, the wet slapping noise echoing around the room.

The sting radiated through my core, making me cry out, making me arch my back, making me beg for more. “Atticus,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, my body trembling with need. “Please. Make me come. Take me, use me, make me your dirty little whore. I want it. I need it. I need you to ruin me. I need you to be rough, to hurt me, to fulfill these dark fantasies.”

The sound of my hand against my flesh was a harsh, brutal rhythm, a counterpoint to the pounding of my heart, the aching of my core. I could feel the heat building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, the need growing more urgent, more desperate. But it still wasn’t enough.

A sinking feeling that only Atticus could satisfy the dark, twisted needs that were consuming me. And then I was there, teetering on the edge, my body balanced on a tightly coiled tension unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and I let go, falling into the abyss, my orgasm ripping through me, rushing over me. I cried out, my voice raw, my body convulsing as wave after waveof pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless, spent, and utterly ruined.

My toes curled, my back arched, and my body shook as I rode out the storm, fingers still moving, drawing out the pleasure, imagining Atticus’s cock pulsing inside me, his hot seed spilling into my womb, marking me as his. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain, of satisfaction and longing, of completion and an emptiness I did not know what to do with.

As I came down from my high, I lay there, my body weak and boneless, the quilt tossed aside, my skin flushed and sweaty. My breathing slowed, shallow and shaky, the air in the room thick with the scent of heat and shame. My body sank deeper into the mattress, limbs loose, useless. I stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows crawl along the plaster like ghosts—silent witnesses to what I’d just done.

I shouldn't have. But God, Ineededit. I turned onto my side and pulled the pillow tight to my chest, burying my face into the worn fabric like it might hold his scent. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. It just smelled like detergent and dust and desperation. But I imagined it anyway—pretended it was his shirt, his skin, his breath on my neck as he growled that name again in my ear.Little girl. Bluebell. Gennie girl.

My stomach clenched, shame curdling with something far more dangerous. Longing. Raw and stupid and starved. I hated this. Hated the emptiness of the bed, the cold feel of my own fingers, the hollow echo of his absence after imagining him inside me—controllingme, ruining me. There was a hole inside me only he could fill, and I didn’t even know him. Not really. But it didn’t matter.

Because something inside me already belonged to him. And I didn’t know how to take it back. I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose, willing the trembling in my legs tostop. The silence of the house pressed in around me, thick and heavy. It should have soothed me, but it didn’t. It made me feel exposed. Unseen and still too visible, like I was glowing in the dark, still marked by the thoughts I’d let myself have. Stillwetwith the memory of what I imagined he’d do to me.

Sleep didn’t come easy, not with the way my mind clung to him like a fever. But eventually, the dark pulled me under, and even in my dreams, I felt him there. Behind me. Inside me. Watching.

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing I noticed as I stirred from my sleep was the rough, calloused hand clamped over my mouth, the weight of a body pressing me into the mattress. Panic surged through me, my heart pounding like a drum. I struggled, but it was no use; he was too strong.

A spicy, masculine scent invaded my nostrils, and I blinked away the sleep to see Atticus's green eyes staring down at me. His gaze was intense, almost predatory. I tried to speak, but my words were muffled against his hand.

"Ah, the little girl decided to wake up and join me. Hello there, beautiful," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. I felt a knot of dread form in my stomach, tightening with each passing second. I pushed against his hand, trying to free myself, but he was immovable.

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