Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 14

14

Sweeney

I can’t look at Nellie’s face any more. In the dark, her potential—what she could have been before she gave herself to me—is blurred, undefined.

I can lose myself in her yielding cunt and release the pressure coiled deep in my gut like a snake, but not with her madhouse eyes boring into mine.

I hurl myself at her retreating back, my weight taking her down into the soaking grass. She claws at me, and I straddle her hips, my cock rock-hard in an instant, and as I roll her, she thrills me by spitting in my face.

“That’s a girl!” I slap her cheek and pin her throat to the ground, picking at her stays with my other hand. Her bucking hips do nothing to shift me, but I enjoy the grind against my erection. I am going to wreck her right here in the dirt, because she deserves no better.

I bare her pale breasts to the rain, the droplets lashing her like needles, and she shudders. I pinch one rosy nipple and lower my mouth to it, closing my teeth around the tight nub, and she arches her back, raising her arms over her head.

Blood runs pinkish, staining the sleeves of her jacket, and I have the urge to unsheathe my razor again and etch the smooth canvas with fresh ruin.

My cock throbs painfully, and I free it from my trousers. It’s almost steamy from the heat, and I pump it, bouncing the thick tip on her stomach.

“You’re gonna take this, Nellie,” I say, my tongue delving into her mouth. She tastes of metal, yet such sweetness, like innocence yet to be fully snuffed. “It’s all for you. Everything I have, you will take, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.”

I shove her thighs apart and tear her underwear to find her soaking wet, her tight pink snatch already opening up for my attention. It’d take more than a cold, wet night to dampen my girl’s ardor; she wants the wolf at her door.

“Dirty girl.” I reach beneath her skirts to the hot place between her legs. Her smooth cunt parts readily, the petals of her sex slick and malleable as they unfold around my calloused fingers. The warmth envelops me as I slide deep, the knot of her clit beating a seam against my thumb.

“Who’s creature are you, Nellie?” I murmur, working her as she writhes. I lick the blood from between my fingers on her pallid throat. “Will you be my good little slut forever, or do I need to convince you?”

Say no. Refuse. Tell me you hate me and I’ll never be able to leave.

Nellie draws a deep breath, her eyes flying open. “Fuck you,” she hisses.

How special and choice a thing she is. Eminently appropriate, ever practical, so precisely tuned to me. Hard to feel anything but cherished in her presence.

I’m inside her in an instant, her hot channel swallowing my length in one merciless thrust. She squeals and thumps my chest, urging me on, and vitriol falls from her lips.

“You beast,” she cries. “ You’re the creature. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Fuck, yes.” I let go of her neck and yank her hips closer so I can forge deeper, smashing my hips into hers. “Fight me, Nellie. Fight me and I’ll let you come.”

To my surprise, she sits up on her elbows and delves inside my jacket. Then my razor flashes in her hand, and I react instantly, grabbing the sharp edge with my left hand as it flies at my face.

Bellowing in fury, I lean my weight onto her and fold her body in half, her boot-heels by her ears, and grind myself into her depths. Her eyes are wild with terror and fury, but still her pussy clenching desperately around my girth, seeking her release.

I place the razor to her neck, fraying the lace of her shredded choker. It comes away and falls to the ground, revealing the full glory of her bruises and bites. It’s pitiful and beautiful to see, and as the chilly steel touches her skin, she quickens, her clit thrumming against the base of my cock.

We pause a moment, and I breathe her in.

I could do it . Slit her throat even as I empty inside her, and watch her wretched life ebb away. Free her from the obsession that drives her, the bleakness that threatens to consume her for good. It’d be a gift.

But who said I was the generous type? I want her. Need her, even. And without what only she can give, what will become of me?

I toss the razor aside, and fuck her. It’s frenzy, lust, and death, all fighting to get out of me. Out of me and into her.

Nellie screams and fights, just like I want, and I grab her face, squeezing her cheeks. I kiss her savagely, tasting blood as her lips smash into my teeth, and she moans into my mouth as her orgasm takes her.

Her pussy ripples along the length of me, milking the come from my body and leeching it into hers. Taking from me, as she should. As she must, if she is to live. If I’m not to kill her.

The crush dissolves into an embrace as our muscles relax, and I find myself stroking her hair, her head nestled to my chest. I don’t know why or how, but a covenant was made here between us.

All I wanted was to use her body to work my tension loose, but something passed between us here that has left me…moved, in a fashion.

I hadn’t intended to carve my own skin, only hers, but part of me had to acknowledge her sacrifice. She handed over sense and reason to me like they were worthless, and for that, my blood seemed warranted.

It’s like before when I let her cut me—she takes a little back, but it’s nothing close to what she gives.

It’s psychological trepanning: if I buckle, she will not break until I’m ready for it to happen.

I’m toying with Nellie, surely. Going along for the ride, until I can be certain that there’s no way back for me. Indulging my proclivities with a willing actor, knowing there’s no future in it.

Nellie is crying. Maybe she knows it, maybe she doesn’t, but as I help her to her feet, her eyes shimmer. She reminds me of a child, and for the first time, I wonder about her life.

Didn’t she want for better? Did she come from dark places or was she merely lost to them?

And why the fuck do I care? I’ve never cared, and to do so now would be a travesty.

“Home, treacle,” I say. “You did well.” I pick up my razor and pocket it before reaching for her. “Give me your hand.”

Her smile is steeped in regret, and it reminds me of Veronica. She weaves her fingers through mine.

“Oh, Mr. T,” she sighs. “You did ask for it after all.”