Page 122 of Filthy Little Fix
"Then pray, Nyx. Pray to me."
He entwines his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck and pulls, dragging me to the edge of the bed. I don't fight. I surrender completely.
He forces me off the bed, throwing me to the floor. The impact of my knees on the marble hurts.
I look up at him, who now looms over me like a monolith. A god looking from his altar at his miserable creation. His shirt is still open, his chest marked by scars and ink. A fucking god.
"On your knees. Like a good devotee."
I obey without hesitation. I kneel before him. An offering.
His gaze sweeps over my body, assessing my submission. The satisfaction on his face is the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
He unzips his pants, and I see him, hard and throbbing. I don't need any more commands. I lean forward, rest my palms on his thighs, and open my mouth.
He doesn't order me. I know what to do. I take him whole, relaxing my throat, letting the metallic depths of his taste flood my tongue. He grabs my hair with one hand, using it to guide my head, to dictate the rhythm.
He forces me deeper. I can't suppress the moan, the gag reflex in my throat. His dick pulses. He likes it when I gag, when I run out of breath.
"Look at me."
I obey, lifting my tear-filled eyes to face him. His face is contorted in pure pleasure and dominance. Knowing I'm the cause of this does things to me.
Then, suddenly, he pulls me back. He moves away from me, leaving me gasping, my chin dripping saliva.
"Bed. Now," he orders.
I get up, my knees aching from the cold marble, and drag myself to the bed, lying on my back with my legs open for him.
He climbs over me, pinning me down. Quickly, with a desperate haste, he drags my pants down. I lift my hips, helping him, and I expect him to invade me all at once, but he stops. He leans in, kisses my neck, makes me melt before he bites. Hard. I grab the back of his shirt, and the pain radiates in waves of heat across my collarbones, my ribs. It leaves my lips as a loud, breathless moan; the pain activates every molecule in my body, makes them pulse for him.
He increases the pressure of his teeth for a second, and then, eases, kissing the spot he just marked. Blood wells up on my skin. He pulls back, his teeth stained with my blood.
"Can you take it?" he whispers. It's the closest thing to care he can offer me in the midst of his fury. He's chosen a new place to break me. And he's checking if I'm still with him.
I nod, panting, unable to form words.
"Look at me," he orders. He grabs my chin, forces me. "Do you want this?"
"Yes," I say. "Yes, fuck, please..."
I can take anything he wants to give me.
He grabs my thighs. Grips them hard enough to leave marks, forces them open, and pulls me closer. He positions himself between them, brushes against me.
I arch, ready, desperate. But he doesn't move.
He stares at me. His jaw is locked. His eyes are dark as crude oil.
"Do you need me to prepare you?" The words come out like a threat. "Or do you want it the way I know you like it, hm? You want it to hurt?"
My dick pulses. I moan.
"Just like this... Like always, Dante," I whisper, panting. "I want you to hurt me."
"Of course you do," he snarls, and the way he spits the words undoes me. "You filthy slut."
Without another warning, he drives into me. Deep. I clutch the sheets, his shirt, anything I can grab. My muscles protest the invasion, the pain splitting me in two. This is what I want. He grunts, and the sound nearly makes me come. I feel him tight, deep inside me, and it's torture. Paradise.
