Page 59 of Porcelain Grave

We start to rise. Because of the black stained glass, the world outside vanishes. I can't see the ground dropping away, but I can feel it. My stomach does a slow, sickening roll as the carriage sways, the height pressing in on me like a physical weight. I’m blind, trapped in this obsidian sanctuary, and the vertigo starts to claw at my throat.

I feel him before I see him. Rhys moves toward me, his gaze predatory, his eyes dark with a hunger that borders on the psychotic. He doesn't just look at me; he devours me. He steps into my space, crowding me against the velvet seat, and his mouth crashes onto mine. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a claim. He tastes like adrenaline and obsession, his tongue invading my mouth with a ruthless intensity that mirrors the way he owns every inch of my soul.

His hands are everywhere. One grips my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat, while the other slides down, bruising my breast through the fabric of my dress. I moan into his mouth, a sound of pure, terrified need. Then, his hand dives lower, slipping under my skirts to find the lace of my knickers. He doesn't slide them off. He hooks his fingers into the fabric and rips them clean off my body with one violent tug.

I gasp, the sudden chill of the air hitting my wet folds, but before I can even breathe, he’s stuffing the shredded lace into his pocket like a fucking trophy.

"Mine," he whispers against my lips, his breath hot and jagged. "Every fucking piece of you is mine."

The ferris wheel begins to spin faster, the carriage tilting and swaying as we climb higher into the void. The sensation of the height makes my head swim, a dizzying cocktail of fear and lust. Rhys doesn't give me a second to recover. He pushes my dress up to my waist, exposing me completely to his dark, piercing gaze.

He doesn't waste time. He plunges two fingers deep into my soaking pussy, his thumb grinding ruthlessly against my clit.

"Fuck, Rhys!" I scream, my fingers digging into the velvet upholstery, clutching the seat for dear life as the carriage lurches.

The wheel is playing with us now, spinning and dipping, the centrifugal force pushing me harder against him. He’s relentless, his fingers pumping in and out of me with a brutal, rhythmic precision. I’m caught in a storm—the terror of the height, the blindness of the glass, and the sheer, overwhelming pleasure of his touch. It’s too much. My vision blurs, my breath comes in ragged, sobbing hitches, and then I snap. I come with a violent, body-shaking orgasm that leaves me sobbing, my muscles clamping tight around his fingers.

He doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow down. He just watches me break, a sadistic smirk on his face. Then, he abruptly pulls his fingers out and reaches down, clicking my safety belt open with a sharp snap.

"Now," he hisses. "Now I really fucking take you."

He grabs me by the waist and hauls me up, slamming me against the black stained glass. My back is pressed against the cold surface, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist, my dress bunched up around my chest. He rips his trousers open, and his cock springs free—thick, pulsing, and terrifyingly large.

He doesn't tease me. He doesn't slide in. He thrusts into me with one singular, psychotic motion, burying himself to the hilt.

I scream, the sound echoing in the small space, a mixture of shock and absolute ecstasy. He’s fucking me with a violence that feels like he wants to split me in two, his hips slamming against mine with a rhythmic, bruising force. Every thrust is a declaration of war, a possessive claim that leaves me breathless and trembling.

Screams come from the other carriages, but then sound like mine that's fear mixed with pleasure.

"You're my fucking doll, Ophelia," he snarls into my ear, his voice a filthy, unhinged rasp. "I'm going to fuck the memory of every other fear out of you. I'm going to fill you so full of me."

His hands are everywhere—one gripping my throat just enough to make me gasp, the other clutching my ass, digging his nails into my skin. He kisses me again, a bruising, desperate clash of teeth and tongue, while he continues to hammer into me.

He shifts my position without stopping, flipping me around so I'm facedown against the glass, my ass shoved high in the air. He enters me from behind, his cock hitting my cervix with every merciless plunge. I can feel the carriage swaying, the wheel spinning us higher and higher, faster and faster, and the danger of it all only makes the pleasure more acute. I’m terrified we’re going to fall, terrified of the height, and absolutely addicted to the way he’s destroying me.

"Tell me!" he bellows, his voice echoing, psychotic and loud. "Tell me you're mine! Tell me you love this fucking madness!"

"I'm yours!" I shriek, my voice breaking. "I love it! Fuck me, Rhys! Just fucking destroy me!"

He doesn't stop when I come a second time, nor a third. He pushes me past the point of exhaustion, past the point of sanity. He flips me again, pinning me to the velvet seat, his legs locking mine open wide as he devours me one last time. He’s shaking now, his movements becoming frantic, obsessive, his breath coming in guttural groans.

"I'll kill anyone who looks at you," he whispers, his eyes wide and manic. "I'll burn the whole fucking world down just to keep you in this cage with me."

I come again.

The ferris wheel begins its final descent, the motion slowing, the carriage gradually returning to the earth. As the wheel comes to a complete, jarring stop, Rhys lets out a primal, guttural roar, thrusting one last time with everything he has. He erupts inside me, a hot, flooding tide of cum that feels like it's filling every single cell of my body.

I collapse against him, my body limp, my mind completely blank. I feel like I've been taken to a height that has nothing to do with the ferris wheel—a peak of pure, unadulterated insanity. I'm shaking, drenched in sweat and sex, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Rhys doesn't pull out immediately. He stays buried inside me, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing heavy and ragged. He looks at me with a gaze that is terrifyingly tender yet utterly possessive.

"Welcome home, love," he whispers, his voice returning to that smooth, dangerous purr. "Now the real fun begins.”

Chapter 17

Rhys doesn't let me go for a second. He carries me toward the bedroom, and I’m practically fused to him, my legs wrapped tight around his waist and my arms locked around his neck. We’re still kissing—hard, desperate, tongue-clashing kisses that taste like the lingering adrenaline of the ferris wheel. I’ve got my eyes squeezed shut, completely lost in the heat of him, when I hear it.

A sound.