I break the kiss just long enough to drag a ragged, desperate breath into my burning lungs.
"Sybil," I groan, my head falling back against the thin pillow, completely entirely at her mercy.
She doesn't stop. The tentative, terrified virgin is dead. The woman straddling my hips is completely feral, driven by the absolute necessity to prove that we are both still breathing.
She grips the hem of her scrub top, crosses her arms, and pulls the garment entirely over her head, tossing it onto the floor.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the medical suite illuminate her completely. She is wearing nothing underneath. The pale, flawless curve of her breasts, the delicate, sharp jut of her collarbones, the frantic, rapid rise and fall of her chest—she is a masterpiece of ruin and resurrection.
I stare at her, the sheer, paralyzing beauty of her completely robbing me of speech. My pale gray eyes dilate until they are entirely black.
"Touch me," she demands, her voice a breathless, completely shattered plea. She reaches down, grabbing my right hand and dragging it up her stomach, pressing my palm directly over her wildly beating heart. "Prove to me that you're alive, Thayer. Make me forget what you did."
"I will never let you forget," I growl, my fingers splaying wide, possessing her entirely.
I drag my rough, calloused palm up to cup her heavy breast, my thumb dragging aggressively over her tightening peak. She throws her head back, a sharp, melodic cry tearing from her throat that echoes loudly in the sterile room.
The sound completely severs the last remaining thread of my control.
I slide my hand down, tracing the subtle curve of her waist, slipping beneath the waistband of the loose medical scrub pants she is wearing. The moment my fingers brush the damp, slick heat between her legs, her entire body arches like a drawn bowstring.
She is completely soaked for me. So desperate, so entirely undone by the violence and the survival, that the mere touch of my hand is enough to make her completely shatter.
"Look at me," I command, my voice a demonic, vibrating hum.
She forces her heavy, languid eyes open, looking down at me through the tangled curtain of her dark hair.
"Tell me who you belong to," I demand, sliding two thick fingers deep inside her.
She gasps, her fingernails digging brutally into the uninjured muscles of my right shoulder. Her inner walls clamp down around my fingers, a tight, scalding velvet vice that almost makes my eyes roll back in my head.
"You," she sobs, her hips instinctively rocking against my hand, completely chasing the friction, entirely surrendering her autonomy. "I belong to you."
"Say it again," I order, my thumb finding the swollen, hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves at her center, applying a slow, agonizingly heavy pressure.
"I am yours!" she screams, the volume completely unrestrained, tears pouring down her face as the first violent wave of her climax hits her.
I don't let her come easily. I manipulate her, forcing her to ride the agonizing, blinding edge of the orgasm, maintaining the psychological dominance even while I am physically incapacitated beneath her. I watch her face contort in pure, unadulterated pleasure, completely erasing the terror her father stamped into her soul.
When I finally stroke her into the abyss, her entire body completely locks up. She shatters, crying out my name, herinner muscles milking my fingers in violent, rhythmic spasms. She collapses forward, her damp forehead resting against my uninjured collarbone, completely gasping for air.
I wrap my right arm tightly around her trembling back, holding her flush against my side, burying my face in her hair.
My own body is screaming for release, the heavy, agonizing ache in my groin a physical torture, but I am entirely satisfied. The physical consummation can wait until I can pin her to a mattress and take her completely. The psychological consummation is absolute.
She is marked. She is claimed. She has accepted the darkness.
We lie in the quiet, sterile room for a long time, the only sound the steady, synced rhythm of our breathing. She doesn't move away. She stays curled against my side, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the dark tattoos on my right arm.
Then, the heavy reinforced doors of the medical suite slide open with a sharphiss.
Sybil gasps, scrambling to pull the discarded scrub top over her bare chest.
Dante steps into the room, his eyes immediately dropping firmly to the floor tiles, completely refusing to look at the rumpled bed or the half-dressed Donna scrambling to cover herself.
The atmosphere in the room instantly drops below freezing. Dante wouldn't interrupt us unless the world was ending again.
"Speak," I command, my voice dropping back into the cold, lethal frequency of the Don.
