The last word dies on her lips as I squeeze just a little harder, the sound turning to a gurgle in her throat. Her face is turning red now, too, and her eyes are glassy and wet. Inside, her systems are in a panic: blood pounding, breath tight and strained. I wish I could keep her like this forever, right on the verge of death. It’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever experienced.
I can’t, though. Unlike me, her death will be permanent.
I give her another sip of air at the same time I deliver a hard, firm stroke, burying myself to the hilt inside her. Chloe cries out, still clinging to my forearm. “More!” she gasps.
I know she doesn’t mean air. I squeeze again, making her convulse. Her cunt convulses, too, slicking my cock with her arousal as I pump slowly in and out of her. Chloe drops one hand to her side, her knuckles thumping against the mattress. She’s still very much alive—I can hear it, her body screaming for release—but her eyes are starting to dim, and so I let her breathe again, just a little. She gulps down the air greedily and grinds against me. There’s a heat building in her core. I can taste it on the air.
With my free hand, I manage a single clumsy phrase: “Come for me.”
She sees it; I watch her glossy eyes follow the movements. Whether she parses it, I don’t know. I tighten my grip on her throat, and her lips move, so red and swollen that I can’t stop myself from bowing over her and catching her bottom lip in my teeth and biting down until I taste the hot, salty tang of blood.
It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, making her bleed like that. As soon as I taste it, my cock surges, and I lose what little control I had, and I give her what she’s been asking for:
I fuck her harder. I fuck her as hard as I can, hard enough that her body jostles and slams beneath me, hard enough that I have to brace my other hand around her throat, pinning her down at the neck.
And shesmiles.
Through the glossy tears and red-veined eyes and panicked lungs, she smiles for me. Her blood looks like lipstick, garish and bright. The brightest thing in the room.
“Thank,” she rasps, the rest of it strangling in her throat again. Then her eyes roll back, and she flops against the mattress in time with my angry, violent thrusts, and the strangling noises become steady and rhythmic.
She’s about to die.
She’s also about to come. So am I.
My muscles cord up in my arms as I bear down on her, the bed frame slamming loudly against the wall in a creaking, staggering rhythm that almost matches the panic of Chloe’s heartbeat. I press my fingers into her throat, relishing the give of her skin, the staccato rhythm of her pulse, and the taste of her impending orgasm, building like a storm cloud.
Her lips move, like she’s trying to say something. I’m squeezing too tightly, though, and just for a moment, fear flashes through her, bright and sharp as a knife. It’s a fear I’ve felt dozens of times, that spark when a victim realizes I really am going to kill them.
Usually, it delights me. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I feel my own panic at the thought of losing her, and so I loosen my grip?—
Just as Chloe’s orgasm spills over.
She screams her first full breath, her body a riot beneath mine. I slam my fists into the pillow and fuck her as hard as I can, hard enough that I can hear the drywall splitting as the doorframe slams into it, burying myself deeper and deeper intoher spasming cunt until heat tears through me, too. My cock pulses, my cum erupting inside her.
She’s still coming, though. Her body pulses, and she squirms beneath me, making soft, desperate little noises. I slump down to kiss her, licking the dried blood off her lips and tangling my fingers up in her hair while she ruts against my softening cock, riding out the last waves of her pleasure. That place where we’re connected is drenched with a hot, warm liquid that reminds me of blood, even though it’s not.
Eventually, Chloe’s movement slows, and then she stills completely, sinking into the mattress. And I feel the shift in her emotions, like I did before.
Shame.
I roll off her and settle on my side so I can smooth her sweat-damp hair away from her face. She turns her pretty brown eyes toward me, her lashes still limned with tears, her lips still swollen.
“You feel ashamed,” I say, twisting my body to make room for my hands.
Chloe tenses a little. “You can sense that, too?” she murmurs.
I nod. Then, even though it makes my heart feel tight: “Is it because of me?”
Just for a moment, her shame is replaced with confusion. Then she shakes her head and reaches her hand up to her throat, already striped red and white from my fingers. It’ll be mottled with bruises tomorrow, a thought that gives me a warm feeling, a little like pride.
“It’s not you,” she says softly. “It’s—this. Wanting this when we’re…” Her voice trails off, and she looks away from me, up at the ceiling. “The things I would have to think about,” she says flatly, “with other guys, just to have any hope of coming?—”
The shame flares hotter, and I cup her face to force her to look at me.
“Tell me,” I say.
Chloe trembles a little. The tears dance on her eyelashes, and I reach up and swipe them away with my thumb, then press them to my tongue.
