The pressure on my throat was delicious, addictive and drove me faster to the brink of an orgasm.
Something warm and wet plastered to the back of my thigh from behind. I didn’t have to look to know his stab wound had opened completely and blood gushed out. He noticed, too. Crimson leaked all over the sheets and our bodies, dampening my flesh, entering my pussy. Still, he didn’t stop, only fucking me harder, cutting off my air supply whenever I got mouthy, and letting me breathe again when I quieted down.
We were bathed in his blood, fucking like two mad people, and I never wanted it to end.
I angled my ass up in the air and closed my thighs together, relishing the friction. He turned me inside out, making me forget the mess we were both in. I dripped cum, and he dripped blood, and the sheets were a mess of pink and red.
“I—I have to come,” I choked through his grip on my throat. I couldn’t help it.
“Who are you coming for, Piccola Fiamma?”
“You.”
“And who do you belong to?”
“Y—you.” I tried stifling another moan of pleasure, my body tingling with goose bumps and pre-orgasmic shivers. “I belong to you, Achilles.”
It was the truth. Depressing as it was, I could never want another. Just as well, as I’d decided to swear off men after all of this was over.
“Damn right you belong to me.” His hand slid from my throat to my clit, his hot mouth covering the side of my throat as he trailed kisses on it while playing with me. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
I inhaled sharply, an explosion of pleasure detonating in my body. My knees gave in and I fell stomach-first to the bed.
Achilles came inside me, probably remembering our last farewell conversation, where I told him I couldn’t get pregnant.
“Mine.” He collapsed on top of me, crushing me to the mattress.
“Yours,” I breathed. “Till death do us part.”
Because that seemed to be the only way we could ever quit each other.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Achilles
“Where’d you get the clothes?”
Tierney plopped on the dilapidated armchair next to mine, rubbing the strands of her damp hair with a towel, fresh out of the shower.
I wore slacks, a tailored black shirt, and my wingtips. My thigh wound was newly bandaged underneath, though the sheets still looked like we’d slaughtered a family of five between them.
Lighting a cigarette, I cupped my hand to protect the flame before passing it to her. She leaned to clasp it with her teeth, her cheeks hollowing as she gave it a good suck. I lit another one for myself. “My driver delivered my clothes.”
Her face fell. “That means he knows where I’m staying.” She stood up and hugged herself, striding to the tiny window.
She was tripped out. Paranoid about being found and anxious about what I’d do to her. I couldn’t blame her, everything considered.
“He doesn’t know why I’m here,” I volunteered, “and neither of us is going to stay long enough for anyone else to find out.”
“How’s your dad doing?”
“You took his finger.”
She sucked on the cigarette, nodding to herself. “Good.”
I concealed my smile with a thick cloud of smoke.
She did that thing again today. The same bullshit she pulled in Naples, with her eyes glassing over when we fucked. It was a real shame she retreated somewhere else every time she had sex. If she were fully present in the act, she’d draw much more pleasure from it.
