Page 53 of Brutal Serpent

Her eyes were wide, and I turned her arm over so the blood would flow directly into the pan.

My insides clenched again at each rivulet. The room was silent except for the little pings.

I stared at the basin, watching the scarlet pool at the bottom, the basin filling with my wife’s blood.

And it was starting to piss me off.

Everything about Catherine wasmine.Her entire body was mine, to do what I wanted with. Her mouth wasmineto fill with my cock, her cunt wasmineto fill with my seed. Her blood wasmine, too, so why should I give my wife’s blood to some fleabitten surgeon who was just going to dump it in the garden?

My cock was aching at the sight of her flesh, the scarlet marks where the leeches had been, the rivulets of red down her arm, her chest heaving up and down. I could see the outline of her nipples against her nightgown.

I suddenly flipped her arm back over, bending over it, watching the progression of her blood. Then I bent my head and reached my tongue out for the first scarlet drop.

“St. Erth!” she squeaked. “What are youdoing?”

“Your blood will not be going back to the doctor,” I said harshly, scooping the shallow puddle up and letting it drip off my fingers back into the cut I had made.

She shrieked again, trying to wiggle away, and I gripped her face tightly with my bloody fingers, my handprint stark against her chin.

“Understand this, Viscountess,” I said. “I will control everything about you. What goes into your body. What goes out of your body. Who you talk to. Who talks to you. When and how you get fucked.”

My little wife began to scream and kick, and I climbed on the bed over top of her.

She can shriek all she likes. But I take what I want.

I moved over her on the bed, caging her in with my legs, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. My tongue hit her skin, and she tasted like sweet and iron, delicate sunshine on her skin mixing with the coppery tang of her blood on my lips.

My own heart was pounding as I pulled up her nightgown and plunged my cock inside her. Catherine arched her back and whimpered and I bent down to her lips, forcing the blood on her lips, in her mouth, so she can taste my obsession.

Then I put my hand down to her slippery wet cunt.

“Give it to me, Catherine,” I warned, reveling in the fact that each stroke of my cock raised her small body from the bed, arched her body into mine so her breasts were pressed against me. “I’ve got your body, your blood, your cunt, and now I’m going to get your release, too.”

I crave her release, need it like I need air, that exquisite sensation of her cunt tightening around my cock or my fingers, and I’m fucking insatiable. I’ll do anything to get it. She cried and tried to push me away, but my fingers don’t stop, rubbing the slippery place where our bodies connect until she gives up and submits to me, her hands tightening on my shoulders until she’s crying out with pleasure and turning to liquid under me, and only then do I let myself release in her, envisioning my seed buried fucking deep in her and swelling her with my heir.

CHAPTER 27

Catherine

On the day of the ball at the Martin’s home, I wasn’t feeling well and my stomach gave another lurch to see a letter from home.

I now dreaded each letter from home. If St. Erth found them, he would snatch them from my hands, laugh at every proof of his revenge over them, and then tear them up in a fury when they begged me to escape him.

In my last letter, I had tried to warn them that St. Erth was not the kind of man who let his wife escape him, and I trembled to see what they had replied.

If you cannot obey these simple instructions, my father wrote, after a lengthy description of how my mother’s finery and dresses had all been repossessed,we will cut you off from the family. You will no longer be welcomed in our home and I will do everything I can to ensure that you end your days as a common dock whore.

My stomach fairly plunged at this, and I had to clutch the table for support. St. Erth’s friends were leaving for London tomorrow and he was out hunting ptarmigan with them. I quickly shredded the letter into pieces and threw it on the fire. Ididn’t want him to see the threats and dire warnings that I would end up as a dock whore.

Why, the only way that could ever happen was if the Viscount himself was dead!

The next day, we took the bigger carriage to a ball that the Martin family was giving, and Lord Sheringham and Mr. Westruther were forced by necessity to ride with us. Lord Sheringham was a pale, goggly-eyed man, and Mr. Westruther a notorious dark-haired rake.

“Do you like dancing?” Lord Sheringham asked, in a natural but mistaken attempt to make conversation.

I opened my mouth to reply but the Viscount cut across, “You will not be dancing with my wife.”

Lord Sheringham jumped nervously.

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