I grip Sophia’s hips harder, thrusting up into her with filthy, punishing strokes, letting the wet slap of her soaked cunt fill the room like a victory.
Every scream from Valeria is fuel.
Every moan from Sophia is salvation.
I am the monster she made, and right now I am exactly where I want to be—buried deep in the woman I love while the woman who tried to own me watches everything she lost bleed out in front of her.
Sophia’s moans grow louder, wilder. Her pussy grips my cock tight as she chases her pleasure.
“Nazareth,” she moans out of breath. “I’m going to?—”
“Come for me, baby,” I growl, grinding against her clitwith every stroke. “Come around my cock and scream my fucking name.”
“Nazareth,” she cries, her hips jerking, pussy pulsing as the orgasm hits her. Every muscle in her body pulls taut, her thighs trembling, eyes rolling closed. It’s the most beautiful fucking sight, something I’ll never get tired of seeing.
Sophia’s orgasm is still tearing through her, her whole body convulsing in my grip, when I reach down and close my hand around the karambit.
I don’t rush it.
I hold Valeria’s eyes, let her see exactly what I’m about to do, let her understand it fully, while Sophia shudders and cries and comes apart in my arms.
“Listen to her come,” I bite out. “It’s the last sound you get.”
I swipe the blade across Valeria’s throat. The cut is clean. Deep. Arterial. The blood comes fast—faster than you’d think, a hot pressurized rush that hits the air and keeps going.
Her eyes remain on mine, and for one suspended second there’s something almost like disbelief in them, the look of a person who genuinely never imagined this particular ending.
But I have.
Multiple times. And finally having it be real is a quiet, vicious kind of satisfaction that settles deep in my bones like the first real breath I’ve taken since I was a boy.
Her painted, ruined face twists one final time, and a wet, gurgling choke peels from her slit throat before the life drains from her completely. The sight of it—Valeria dying while Sophia is still pulsing and screaming around my cock—sends me over the edge.
The karambit drops from my hand, and I snake my arms around Sophia. Pleasure doesn’t just tear through me. It rips me open. A detonation of everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I’ve ever feared, all at once.
The force of it is brutal, like the night itself has been a fuse burning down to this single, white-hot second. The violence and the blood and the rage and Sophia, always Sophia, the only clean thing I've ever had, clenching around me and taking me somewhere past the edge of everything I thought I could survive.
Pulse after pulse of thick heat floods her as I grind through every wave, forcing my cum as deep as it will go, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise because I need her to feel every second of this, need this to be real and present and entirely ours in a room that has been about ruin all night.
Valeria's blood continues to fall in heavy, slowing streams, the word carved into her forehead still seeping. The paint cracked and ruined. The composure that survived years of everything finally and completely gone.
I press my forehead to Sophia's, both of us breathing hard, sweat and paint and her on my skin, and the contrast of it is so complete it almost breaks something open in my chest. Life and death in the same room, pleasure and ruin happening simultaneously, the thing Valeria spent so long trying to own spilling deep inside the woman she tried to use as a weapon against me.
She failed.
She's been failing since the moment Sophia handed me a pink lollipop on a Halloween night.
I press one kiss to Sophia's temple. Brief. Fierce. And shewraps her arms around my neck, still breathing heavily while kissing along my scar.
The sound that comes out of me isn't pretty. It's ugly and animal and I don't try to stop it.
It's done, and I'm still standing and Sophia’s still here and I just—break. Right there. In her arms. Into pieces I'll let her hold.
“It’s over,” I whimper, tightening my hold on Sophia, pressing her against me. “It’s finally…fucking…over.”
November. Caen, France.
I used to write in this diary to make sense of things.
