Page 169 of Craving Venom

His hand spasms once, then twice, before it starts moving on its own. It’s not fast or frantic, just steady. Like shame and arousal are bleeding into each other and he’s too fucked to stop it.

I ease off, but I don’t let go completely. My fingers stay on his wrist.

“She’d ride me until she collapsed.” His lashes sweep low in slow, unhurried passes. “Her hair would fall into her face and then she’d crawl between my legs and suck out every last drop.”

“Did she gag on your cock?”

His knuckles tighten. “Yeah.”

“Spit everywhere?”

A slow nod.

“Did you come on her face?”

His lips part as his hand begins to move faster.

“Tell me.” I let my voice drop to a taunt. “Did she beg for it?”

I lean in closer, watching his eyes glaze.

He doesn’t answer, so I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back, forcing his gaze to meet mine.

“Did she beg for it?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, the only anchor keeping him tethered to this reality. But his hips shamelessly roll up into his hand. He’s not putting an effort to hide it.

“She’d whisper my name like she was dying,” he rasps. “She used to cry afterward, saying I ruined her.”

I grin.

“You like that? Watching her fall apart on your cock?”

His face turns away. “God, yes.”

“You ever fuck her mouth while she sobbed?”

A choked sound rips from his throat.

“She’d choke on it and grab my hips so I wouldn’t stop,” he blurts.

His hand speeds up. I slip my hold from his wrist, retreating completely to let him do all the work. I don’t need to guide him anymore. The shame is gone, or buried so deep under the memory that it can’t reach the surface.

I watch him as his chest rises too fast and his legs stay tense. Each pump of his fist drags a needy, wrecked sound from his lungs.

“You miss her pussy wrapped around you?”

He groans loudly this time as his hips buck.

“Bet she clenched so hard she milked your cock dry,” I whisper. “Didn’t she?”

His hand flies as his knuckles blur. His body locks, every muscle pulled tight as his neck cranes and his mouth slacks open.

“Fuck—fuck—Khloe—”

He comes with a sob. Hot, sticky release spills across his stomach and hand as his trembling fingers struggle to keep pace with the spasms.

Mark’s chest rises and falls in shaky bursts, but they start to slow. His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, lashes wet, jaw slack, still flushed and marked where my grip had locked around his throat.

---