Page 44 of Thorns Laced In Blood

“Yesss,” I moaned, feeling the burn when he used the swing to force my ass to swallow his cock.

“Yes, darling, spread that ass for me, take every inch,” he snarled. “I own you, Maeve.”

I nodded as he started to pound into me faster, deeper, harder. Everything I asked for and more. His brutal thrusts held no mercy, and I pushed my fingers into my pussy to press down on him. When I felt his balls slapping against me, I knew I’d taken every inch of his thick cock. I used my thumb to flick over my clit, repeating the action until I was close.

“Does that feel good? Having me fuck your tight little ass?”

I nodded with my mouth open.

“So fucking tight,” he grunted and started fucking me with long hard strokes that took my breath away.

Each thrust slammed so deep inside of me that pain blossomed within me. He used brutal force until I felt he was reshaping my insides.

“Fuck, baby, cum for me. Cum on my dick,” he groaned. “Now! Fuck—yes.”

I jumped off the edge and surrendered to him—to us. I screamed his name, clenching around him, milking his cock. My body exploded with pleasure in all colours. They sparkled in my mind, but I opened my eyes to look into Master’s eyes.

My explosive orgasm lingered when I felt his hot seed burst out into my asshole. I squeezed my asshole around his cock, loving how he filled me up, hurt me. He pulled back only to slam himself into me again, shoving his cum deeper.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you,” I sighed, slowly rubbing my clit, closing my eyes.

His lips brushed against mine, but I was already dozing off. The swing was too comfortable.

???

I had a rough idea of what my shoe and clothes sizes were. Between the hospital clothes and shoes plus the clothes that Master had bought me. I clicked through pages and pages of clothes but gave up. The selection was too vast. Fashion had changed, but looking at my scarred arms made me push the laptop away. What did it matter no one would see them? I could wear whatever I wanted. My scars never seemed to bother Master. His fingers would often trace the faded marks.

I glanced at Saul, who was tapping away on the phone. I knew he was sneaking away at night, but I never knew his brother was here until I went downstairs to get some water. I damn near broke the glass bottle over his head when he accosted me in the kitchen.

It wasn't until he put his hands up and confessed who he was and that he was here to protect me that I relented. They looked alike, but no one had eyes like Saul’s. I knew Saul was collecting the people who hurt me, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about Athill yet.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, glancing up at him.

His eyes narrowed on me, and he scrutinised me. I gave him a bright smile to throw him off, but his eyes narrowed again until he frowned. He was a bloody mind reader, and I don’t know what kind of voodoo shit he did, but he always knew.

“Fine,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “I will feel ugly in new clothes because of my scars.”

All the clothes were aimed at the spring/summer season. I couldn’t show my arms, back, or chest, but I wanted to look pretty.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, looking at the silver laptop. “T-shirts and hoodies are comfortable.”

Saul’s jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. I glanced up again. He set his phone down slowly like he resisted the urge to throw it through the wall. Then he stood a predator uncoiling and stalked toward me.

“Ugly,” he snarled the word viciously, spitting it out.“You think scars make you ugly?”

Yeah, I wasn’t going to answer that when he was in psycho mode.

His hand caught my wrist, dragging my palm to his chest—where raised, jagged lines marred his skin beneath his shirt.“Then what the fuck does that make me?”

I disregarded his scars. Why? Because he had three on the front of his body and one on his back. How he felt about them never once crossed my mind. Or if they made him feel insecure because he was always so self-assured.

I opened my mouth, but he didn’t let me speak.

“You want pretty?”

He grabbed the laptop, typed three furious keystrokes, and spun it back to me. The screen now showed a designer site—sleeveless dresses, backless tops, and every damn thing I’d scrolled past.

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