She leaned down over me, mouth close to my ear and her voice came out low and raw, full of filthy promises and brutal demands.
“Fuck me like your whore, Hellsing. Isn’t that what you wanted. To claim this tight little cunt.”
“Grace, stop.”
“Fuck me, Hellsing. I want your cum all over me. All over my tits. I know you’ve dreamt of defiling me. Defiling Virgil’s little girl. Taking my virgin cunt as yours.”
“Jesus, Grace,” I tried to get her off me, but she gripped my cock inside her and I gritted my teeth as pleasure and pain seared through me.
“Jesus isn’t here, only vile lusssst,” she hissed, still humping me.
“Stop it, Grace. This isn’t you.”
“Fuck you, Hellsing. You don’t know me, exorcist. Fuck you and everything you are!” She cried out, trembling above me as she sought that first orgasm.
The words she spoke did not sound like her. The intent behind them did not feel like her. It was too far, too degrading, too vicious, and I had seen Grace shy away from less. I simply watched in awe as she came undone above me.
My stomach turned even as my hips jerked up in answer to the way she moved. The sound coming from her throat was not a moan. It had a jagged edge, like laughter that had been torn apart and stitched back together wrong. She rode me harder, chasing something only she could see, lost in a frenzy that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with hunger.
“Grace, look at me,” I tried again, grabbing at her waist. “Slow down.”
She slapped my hands away, not playful, not teasing. Her nails scored the back of my wrists. The look she gave me shut me up. Pupils blown, whites of her eyes threaded with thin red lines. There was a glaze there, a sheen that reminded me of every possessed soul I had ever dragged to a church basement.
Except this was Grace.
My Grace.
Her hips rolled in a sharp, relentless pattern. Every breath she dragged in came out as a rough sound. Her head tipped back. Her hands slid up her own body, dragging over her ribs, squeezing her full breasts, pinching at sensitive skin with too much force the flesh turned tender and red. Her body shook, tensed, kept climbing.
I felt myself slipping too, pulled along by biology and proximity and the scent of her skin. My muscles clenched. My jaw locked. I tried to hold back, tried to ground myself, but her hand came down and closed around my throat.
She squeezed. Not a light playful squeeze, but one filled with another purpose entirely.
My airway narrowed. Black edged my vision. My hips jerked in time with the way she moved, my cock loving the abuse, helpless under the grip at my neck and the grind of her body. She stared down at me, her eyes bright holding something unhinged, a smile that showed teeth.
My release hit just as hers slammed into her. Her body trembled, clamped down, a sharp cry ripping out of her throat. The sound turned halfway through, shifted into something manic and high. My body went rigid under her, stars exploding behind my eyes.
Pain shot through my chest as her nails dug in again, deeper this time, scratching open skin. Her fingers tightened around my throat. She rolled her hips harder, past the point of pleasure,into something cruel. Every nerve went from pleasure to raw pain in one swift breath.
“Enough,” I snarled, grabbing her wrists.
She fought me, hard. Snarling as I tried to control her movements.
Then suddenly, she laughed. The sound burst out of her in short, sharp bursts that grated on my nerves. I used my strength, tore her hands from my neck, rolled us, and slammed her down onto the mattress. The springs jolted. The headboard hit the wall. Her hair flew out over the pillow.
She lay there beneath me, naked, breathing hard, chest heaving, lips parted. She looked wrecked and satisfied and not herself at all. That laughter still sat in the air, an echo that would not leave the room.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked, voice low, hoarse, more shaken than I wanted to admit.
She blinked once, and when she opened her eyes, the edges of her expression softened. She looked up at me with a lazy smile; the same one she gave me the night before. It was familiar and sweet.
“Nothing,” she said, as if that explained everything.
‘Nothing? You nearly broke my cock and strangled the life out of me.”
“Oh please, Hellsing. Haven’t you ever had a little rough sex?”
Her tone was light, careless. No guilt. No awareness of the way my throat burned or the sting of the scratches on my chest. She slid out from under me with no sign of strain, no hesitation. She rose from the bed, every step unhurried, and unashamed.
