Page 85 of Craving Venom

His grip tightens. “Come. Now.”

I snarl. “Go to hell.”

His growl is pure frustration, and he punishes me for it by twisting the bottle, pressing it deeper. I can’t let him think he’s won. I can’t let him believe he owns this. My fingers snap up to my clit, rubbing hard, chasing something of my own making. If I’m going to come, it’ll be my fucking choice.

His breath hitches. “That’s it.”

He matches my rhythm, fucking the bottle inside me to the same brutal pace. His free hand trails down my stomach, pressing over my lower belly. Like he’s feeling how deep the bottle is.

“Good girl.”

Fuck. Fuck, I almost—

His name is at the tip of my tongue. Not in a curse. Not in contempt.

As a moan.

No.

I bite my lip, sharp enough to taste copper, swallowing the sound before it can escape. My body tightens, everything winding tighter and tighter. I’m close, so fucking close, but I won’t give him that.

“Say it,” he commands.

I shake my head, fighting it back.

“Say it,” he snarls, snapping his hips forward, making the bottle shift deep inside me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bite down harder. My entire body is trembling, teetering on the edge. His grip tightens in my hair, yanking my head back against his shoulder. “Fucking say it, Faith.”

It’s not a command. Not a demand. It’s a fucking promise.

And I shatter.

Pleasure slams into me as my body jerks, bowing hard against his chest. My mouth falls open in a silent scream before it rips free.

“Zane—!”

My walls convulse around the bottle. The sharp pressure inside me grows, twisting into something more, something that sears through me. I barely register the faint snap of glass beneath the waves of my orgasm, pleasure riding me so brutally I don’t care.

He snarls my name again and keeps fucking the bottle into me, dragging every last tremor, every last shock of pleasure, until I’m writhing against him. My legs try to snap shut, but his knees keep them spread wide. My pussy clenches too hard, and overstimulation slams into me like a brick wall. I sob, gasping for breath, clawing at his forearm.

“Zane—fuck—stop, stop!”

He doesn’t.

He works the bottle deeper, coaxing out another sharp, unbearable orgasm. It hurts but it feels too good. I’m breaking apart at the seams, and he won’t fucking stop.

I’m begging, pleading, and finally he drags the bottle out of me.

I collapse against him, gasping for air. The absence leaves me hollow like something vital was ripped from my body. My pussy feels so numb I can’t tell if I’m bleeding, or if I’m even still whole.

Is this what it feels like to be torn apart from the inside?

I don’t know.

I don’t move. I don’t open my eyes. I’m too scared to. My breath stutters, a single tear slipping down my cheek. Another. I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, because I’m terrified of what might be waiting for me if I look. I imagine shredded muscle and torn flesh, the glistening trail of my insides spilling out of my body. It feels like I’ve been hollowed out, like my body has become a ruin built from agony. This isn’t just pain—it’s the kind of destruction that only comes with dying from the inside out.

Zane doesn’t push me. He doesn’t tell me to look. He doesn’t say a word.

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