Page 22 of Ma Petite Mort
I’d crawl through glass for this man.
But I don’t need to.
He always drags me where I belong— to my knees.
I laugh, wild and breathless.
“Did you like watching?” I purr, licking my lips as I feel him press against me—hot, hard and heavy with need. “Watching me tease the weak little lamb? Make him beg. Make him bleed. Watching me gift his death to the gods like I was born to do it?”
He growls, low and vicious, grinding against my hip like the answer’s carved into his bones.
Yes.
Yes, he liked it.
I smile, all teeth and bloodlust, and tilt my head just enough to feel his breath on my skin.
“Liked the way I made him scream?” I whisper. “Liked how I smiled when I slit him open? Does it make you hard, knowing I only ever kill for the gods and crawl for you?”
“Down,” he snarls, voice thick with lust and thunder.
I drop.
Like the obedient little monster I am.
Face up. Tongue out. Thighs clenched so tight I might leave bruises on my own skin.
He unfastens his belt, slow like a punishment, and drags his cock free—slick with sweat and the memory of battle. It’s still hot from the altar. Still tasting of fire and devotion.
And I want to drown on it.
“You’re not allowed to taste anyone else,” he rasps, voice wrecked with possession. “Not even with your fucking eyes.”
“Didn’t,” I giggle, wrapping my hand around him. “Only bleed them. Only worship you.”
I drag my tongue along the tip, slow and filthy, letting the tang of blood stain my lips like warpaint.
“Mmm,” I moan, lips curling. “Still warm. You taste like murder and thunder, my god.”
His groan breaks in his throat as his fingers twist into my hair, yanking tighter, like he’s afraid I might disappear?—
But I’m not going anywhere.
Not until I’ve taken every last drop like the good little darkling he made me.
“Good, little darkling. Show them who owns that wicked mouth.”
I do.
I suck him slow, then hard—like it’s a ritual, and every inch of him is some holy law I was born to obey.
My throat aches. My jaw burns.
I fucking love it.
He grips my skull like he owns it—because he does—breathing heavy, whispering those sharp little Norse prayers under his breath, low and guttural, like the gods are watching and he wants them jealous.
I gag, eyes watering, but don’t you dare think that’s regret.
