Page 44 of Hellebore

I place my phone on her desk, camera angled perfectly, zooming in until the frame is filled with nothing but her. Then I open the duffel bag and pull out the fresh hellebore. One by one I tear the black petals free and scatter them across her body as dark blessings. They settle on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the pale skin of her thighs.

I light two thick candles and set them on the nightstands. The flickering flames dance with the purple lights she loves, casting long, living shadows across the room. The air grows thick with the sweet-rot scent of hellebore and warm wax.

I roll my shoulders, eyes devouring her. That tight black dress clings to every curve as if it was made to torment me. The keyhole cut-out at her chest reveals a teasing line of pale skin. The silver chain choker rests against her throat as an invitation. I want to wrap my fist around it and pull until she’s on her knees.

I pull my hoodie over my head, then strip off my shirt. Standing before the camera, candlelight licking over my bare chest, I point one finger directly at the scarred brand above my heart.

BRIAR.

Burned into my skin. Not a tattoo, a scar. A vow. A brand I carved myself so I would never forget who I belong to. Who owns me.

I keep the black mask on, covering the lower half of my face. I drag a hand through my messy hair, letting strands fall over my eyes, then turn back to her.

She is waiting.

I climb onto the mattress, knees sinking on either side of her hips. The bed dips under my weight. I lean over her slowly, one hand braced beside her head, the other hovering just above her body.

My palm settles over her breast, feeling the soft weight through the thin fabric. I squeeze gently, reverently, rolling her nipple between my fingers until it hardens for me. A low, guttural sound escapes my throat.

So fucking perfect.

I sit back on my heels, careful not to crush her, and let my hands explore. I trace the chain at her throat, slide my fingers down the keyhole cut-out to feel the warm silk of her skin. Down her waist. Over her hips. I push the hem of her dress higher, revealing the smooth skin.

I like it rough. When she’s awake I will ruin her, pin her down, choke her with that pretty chain, fuck her until she screams my name and forgets every other man who ever touched her, but tonight is different.

Tonight I worship.

My fingers brush higher, slipping under the hem of her dress, tracing the edge of her bare pussy. She’s already wet. Even in sleep, her body knows it wants me.

I lean down, mask brushing her neck, and inhale her scent as a man starved. My lips ghost over her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

“Mine,” I rasp against her skin, voice rough and trembling with six years of unbearable hunger. “Every breath. Every moan. Every drop of wetness between your thighs… it all belongs to me.”

I press one finger slowly inside her, feeling her tight heat clench around me even while unconscious. A broken sound leaves my chest.

“So fucking tight for me, my darkness…”

I remain that way for a long moment, one finger buried deep inside her, petals scattered across her body, candlelight painting her in gold and shadow, memorizing every second of this first true claiming.

Then I pull my finger free, bring it to my mouth under the mask, and taste her.

My eyes roll back.

“You taste so good,” I breathe against her skin, voice rough with six years of starvation.

I slide my hands beneath her, gently lifting her enough to reach the zipper on the side of her dress. The metal whispers down. I peel the black fabric over her shoulders and hips, then toss it onto the chair in the corner. She lies before me in nothing but a black lace bra that matches the panties in my pocket and the silver chain choker.

My breath catches.

Her nipples are hard beneath the delicate lace. A small purple butterfly tattoo rests just below her navel like a dark invitation. I stare at it, fingers tracing the delicate wings.

“Why did you mark your body?” I murmur, low and calm, almost hurt. “You never liked tattoos.”

I lean down, pull the mask down and press my lips to the butterfly, kissing it reverently before moving higher. I tug the lace bra down, freeing her breasts. A deep growl rips from my chest at the sight, pale skin flushed in the candlelight, nipples tight and begging.

I close my mouth around one, sucking slowly, lavishing it with my tongue. A soft, unconscious moan slips from her lips. Her skin prickles under my touch. Her breathing grows faster, shallower.

I release her nipple with a wet sound and kiss my way down her stomach, moving lower until I’m settled between her thighs. I push them wider, staring at her glistening cunt like a man staring at salvation and damnation at once.