Page 144 of Jewel of the Assassin
Roman fucks me like the Devil and God had an angry one-night stand and created something more terrifying.
When I scream, it’s not one. It’s a damn torrent of screams and shrieks and wails, unholy enough to shudder the foundations of the chapel.
His roars overpower mine as he spears that barbaric cock to the hilt. I’m convinced my pussy will never return to normal.
A well of cum drips out of me when he pulls out, but he climbs off the altar, grips my hips, and gets me in position with me bent over the stone. Oh, God! He is literally standing on his brother’s bloody, bursting corpse!
No hesitations. Roman Makarova drives himself in a steady rhythm of battering strikes. Without warning, my devil of a husband reaches around and pinches my nipples hard, pulling at them. I yelp.
But oh, fuck, what a rush!
The rosary beads press into me deeper while the remaining strands whack at my lower thighs.
He grips the back of my neck, forcing me down, cheek to the stone as he pounds me like thunder.
All it takes is him rolling both my nipples between his thumbs and fingers to fall over the edge again. I can’t fathom how he’s still going, but I’ll give some credit to my worthy pussy.
And everything else? It’s like a fucking high. Fumes of rot and ruin. It’s like our incense. Our drug.
The church is full of them—bodies slumped in pews, sprawled in aisles, heaped at the foot of broken icons. Their limbs are bent at impossible angles, heads lolled back in lifeless devotion, eyes wide and unseeing. Blood splattered everywhere, drowning the aisle runners, staining the fabric red beyond restoration.
They look like spectators frozen mid-gasp, an unholy mass, a congregation of corpses bearing silent witness to our desecration. Candlelight flickers over gray skin and blood-slick marble, casting dancing, ghostly shadows. The scent drifts—gunpowder, copper, and those very light hints of decomposition.
My nails rake against the altar, the stone wet with our blood and Anton’s. Roman takes me with the same ferocity he used to carve his way through them. He grips my hips like the last tether to sanity, his body battering mine with brutal devotion.
This is desecration transforming into consecration. A ritual cleansing through blood, sex, filth, and fire.
And we are finally, terriblyfree.
48
“Good heavens, are you trying to escape me, Moya Samotsvet?”
ROMAN
Islam my hand down on her ass when she doesn’t scream my name. My laughter roars at how she bucks, trying to hump me like a feral hellcat in heat.
Fuck, Valentina Makarova is my world, my universe, and all its endless dimensions.
Her channel is goddamn soaked and hot. By nightfall, I’ll have fucked her within such an inch of her life, her pussy will be beat down like ground meat. She won’t walk. She’ll be fucking bow-legged. Just like the first night I fucked her.
This time, she’ll be bedridden for days.
And I will be there for every single fucking one. We won’t get out of bed. I’ll worship her in every conceivable way, from bubble baths and oil massages to feeding her chocolate-covered strawberries from the palm of my hand. I’ll read goddamn poetry to her. I’ll fucking run my fingers through her hair, then braid it. I’ll serve her breakfast in bed, then blindfold her and bring her to thebalcony wrapped in a fur coat while we eat by the light of the dying sun.
I’ll shower her with new dresses and gowns.
I’ll host a goddamn ball in the manor in her honor.
Because I am not if anything but a gentleman. A sadist bastard. But a gentleman rising after the scorched earth.
But on this day? I’ll take her in every conceivable way. I’ll destroy every goddamn preconceived notion she has about sex. It will be degradation, filthy, disgusting, revolting. She will spit fire. She will rebel. Likely, she will retch. Hell, I might even retch.
Not one torture session I’ve ever performed will compare to the carnage I will wreak today.
But it’s what we both need.
They brought us raw, low, bloody. I will do the same for her until we no longer remember their names. Only this day and last night.
