Page 38 of The Monster You Made
He doesn't stop, fucking me through it, prolonging the ecstasy until I'm limp. Then he pulls out, dropping to his knees in the dirt, mouth latching onto my pussy. His tongue delves deep, lapping my release, beard scraping oversensitive folds. "Taste yourself," he mumbles, rising to kiss me, sharing the tang.
But he's not done. He shoves me down onto my knees, cock bobbing before my face, glistening with us. "Suck it. Clean me off."
I resist, turning my head, but he fists my hair, guiding me. "Open." I do, tongue flicking the head, tasting our mingled essence. I take him deep, hollowing cheeks, bobbing as he thrusts shallowly. His groans echo, hand tightening.
"Enough," he pulls me up, bending me over a fallen log nearby, the moss soft under my belly. He spreads my cheeks, thumb circling my ass, teasing. "Ever think about this? Me claiming every hole?"
My breath hitches, fear and thrill. "Do it," I challenge, pushing back.
He spits on his fingers, working one into my tight ring, slow at first, then faster. I moan, the fullness strange, intoxicating. He adds his cock back to my pussy, double penetration with finger and shaft, rocking gently.
Tenderness again, he kisses my spine, murmuring, "Good girl, taking it all." Loyalty in his touch, need in his voice.
But possession wins. He replaces his finger with his cock head, pushing past the resistance. The burn is intense, but I relax, craving the dominance. He inches in, groaning, "So fucking tight."
Once seated, he moves, slow then building, hand reaching around to finger my pussy. Dual sensations overwhelm, fullness behind, strokes within. I come again, harder, squirting around his fingers.
He follows, pulling out to spill on my back, hot ropes marking me. We collapse, him pulling me into his arms on the ground, bodies entwined.
"Vera," he whispers, hand stroking my hair. "We carry this together. Through the woods, the ruins, all of it."
I nod, nestled against his chest, the forest's whispers fading. For now, in his embrace, we're unbreakable.
But as embers die, he stirs again, hunger unquenched. He rolls me beneath him, spreading my legs wide, entering slowly this time, missionary in the dirt. Eyes locked, he thrusts deep, grinding. "Feel me? This is us, fierce, forever."
I wrap around him, meeting every plunge, nails in his ass. We build slow, then frantic, another peak shattering us together.
Exhausted, we dress in silence, returning to camp. Abigail stirs but sleeps on. Rourke snores unaware.
Dawn nears, but our bond, forged in vulgar fire, steels us for what's ahead.
***
The fire dwindles to ash by morning, leaving the camp cold and brittle. My limbs ache from restless half-sleep, every dream haunted by spirals carved into stone. Abigail stirs beside me, her small fingers still clinging to my cloak. She whispers that she dreamt of lights dancing in the trees, voices that hummed like the river. I hush her gently, though unease prickles at the back of my neck.
Lucian rises first, as always. He douses the embers, his movements sharp, economical. There is tension in his shoulders,the kind that comes from a night without rest. Rourke grumbles awake, cursing the cold, his knife still clenched in his fist as if he slept waiting for enemies. We break our meager fast and press deeper into the pines.
The forest grows stranger with every mile. The air feels thick, close, as though the trees lean inward to listen. The path narrows until we are forced into single file, each of us brushing against bark slick with resin. Shadows coil in strange shapes. The silence remains absolute, heavy enough that I hear the blood rush in my ears.
By midday, we reach a clearing where the ground is littered with bones, deer, elk, perhaps even wolves. All whitened by time, all scattered in chaotic patterns as though dropped from the sky. Abigail clings to me, burying her face against my side. Lucian crouches to study the remains, his jaw tight.
“Predator?” I ask softly.
“Something older,” he mutters. “And clever.”
Rourke spits into the dirt, his eyes darting. “We shouldn’t be here. This place…it eats what strays.”
I glance back at the trees. For an instant, I think I see movement, shadows bending against the light, but when I blink, they are still. My stomach knots. We leave the clearing quickly, though the weight of unseen eyes follows.
Abigail grows tired, stumbling often. I carry her when I can, though my wound throbs under the strain. Lucian notices but says nothing, though once I catch his gaze lingering, a flicker of concern in the hard lines of his face. He masks it quickly, but it lingers in my thoughts.
By late afternoon, mist begins to creep through the trunks, thick and low, swirling around our ankles. It muffles even the sound of our steps. The air tastes of iron, metallic and sharp. Rourke mutters a prayer under his breath. Lucian signals us to halt, his blade drawn. The mist shifts, curling into shapes that almost resemble figures, tall, thin, and faceless.
Abigail whimpers. I press her close, whispering comfort though my own fear rises like bile. The shapes drift at the edge of vision, never solid, never near enough to touch, but always watching. Lucian’s grip on his knife is iron, though even he cannot strike what does not truly stand before us.
We push forward, each step slow, deliberate. The mist thickens, the figures lingering just beyond reach. My chest tightens with dread, the air growing colder, until at last we stumble out onto higher ground. The mist clings to the valley below, writhing like a living thing, but here among the ridges, the air clears.
Abigail exhales shakily, her small hands trembling. I brush her hair back, murmuring reassurance. But inside, I am shaken. The forest doesn’t merely feel haunted; itishaunted, though not by ghosts I can name.
