Page 132 of House of Crimson Kisses
The words cut through me. Carve right to the heart of the night I turned Amelia.
Make me forget, Octavia. Please, make me forget.
Those words laced in pain, in regret, and the ache of knowing that whatever decision I made that night, I was going to lose her eventually.
“What?” I say.
“I don’t want to remember what I did to that man tonight. Fuck me until I forget.”
And here is the same old Red. I sigh silently, the cool heat of frustration simmering in my chest. If I had her potential, I would change the face of the city. I’d make it a better place, more accepting and fair. But then I wonder whether that’s really the problem—I want the power, and she doesn’t. Perhaps that would make her better at wielding power than me.
I thrust deep and she moans. The grind pad between my legs brushes my clit with every thrust and glides over folds, making the motion of fucking her just as pleasurable as the motion inside her.
I drive deeper, harder.
“More,” she says, and her words choke and crack, the emotion of what’s happened tonight finally getting to her.
“Please, Octavia? Harder.”
And I can only oblige. I drive into her over and over and over until sweat drips down my brow. But her body doesn’t tighten, her shoulders don’t stiffen the way they would if she were going to climax. So I pull out despite the tingle on my own pussy from the grind pad, unstrap the harness, and I let it drop to the floor.
I pull her legs toward me and flip her onto her back, chucking her around like a rag doll. She grins at me. I cock an eyebrow at her.
“Oh, you like it when I treat you like my fuck toy, do you?”
“Maybe.”
I sigh again. “Maybe isn’t yes or no, Red. If you behave like a brat, I’m going to edge you until you’re begging for release.”
“Fine. Yes. I like being your dirty little blood slut. I like being your fuck toy, and I like it when you call me a filthy whore. So, Octavia, do I get to come now?”
I grin and climb on the bed. “Oh, you get more than that. You get to eat me while you come.”
Her face brightens as I scoot down her body and turn myself over so my belly presses against her torso. I slide my head between her legs as my pussy rests on her mouth.
And there I go to work. I lap at her clit like the starved woman I am. I want to devour her, consume every drop of excitement and pleasure that I can. I want to spend the rest of my days wringing pleasure out of her until she begs for me to stop, and then maybe one more lick, one more orgasm.
Her pussy is mine, and mine alone.
Her clit hardens beneath my tongue, and I know this is what her body wanted. I wrap my arm over the top of her thigh so I can slide a finger inside her.
I don’t know how long we spend like this. We fuck until the birds begin to sing. We fuck long enough that Red gets up and pulls the curtains shut.
We fuck until we’re spent and crash into sleep, only to wake again and slide ourselves between each other’s legs, lapping and licking and drawing out orgasm after orgasm.
I find myself between her legs, mouth on her clit, two fingers buried deep in her pussy when there’s a quiet cough. A clearing of the throat.
I glance up, crane my eyes to the door, but I don’t stop fucking her, I don’t stop the drive and thrust of my fingers.
In fact, I curl them around until I find her G-spot and then I look at Xavier, who folds his arms.
“Oh, am I interrupting?”
“No. Do go on. What can I do to help?” I say as Red gasps, realising that we now have an actual audience. Her eyes flit from me to Xavier and back again, her body now utterly frozen.
I thrust again and the tiniest of whimpers escapes her mouth.
“You were saying, Xavier?”
