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The shirt I'm wearing lifts slightly as he uses his hand to push my back into the bed.
Using his knife, he runs it along my skin like he’s imagining how he’s going to carve me up.
“You have the softest skin, kitten,” he murmurs. The metal of the blade moves along my flesh, and I don’t dare move, too afraid if I do he’ll cut me.
“You’d look so good with my mark on you,” he says as his breath hits my skin.
I gasp out loud when Jacob knicks my skin with the knife. Before I can open my mouth to protest, his tongue darts out removing the evidence from my skin.
“I like it better when you fight me, kitten.” I swallow thickly, Jacob’s words force me to close my eyes.
“Fuck, kitten. I need to taste you.” He grabs hold of my thighs, spreading them wide open.
Taste me, what?
Jacob’s face moves down and his fingers move my panties aside before the feel of his lips on me forces my mouth to drop open.
Oh, my.
He begins feasting on me like a man starved, his tongue swirling around inside me, lapping at the wetness I feel coming from me.
He sucks my clit between his lips, and I shudder, my body convulsing.
Jacob moves between my thighs, and then in one hard thrust, he forces his cock inside me, burying himself to the hilt. I scream out at the intrusion, my fingers grasping his shoulders.
His thrust becomes forceful, his need to own me overwhelming.
Driving harder, faster, he doesn’t stop until I feel his cum empty inside me, coating me, claiming me.
“You’re mine, kitten,” he growls.
“Give me back my daughter, Kipling,”Pasquale demands when I call him.
Chuckling down the line, I respond, “I don’t think you're in a position to demand.”
“Have you touched her?” he snaps, his anger getting the better of him.
“Every inch,” I murmur. He didn’t need to know there was only one place on Savannah’s body I hadn’t been yet, but I planned on rectifying that soon.
“You fucking asshole,” he sneers.
“It doesn’t matter, you won’t have a bride to marry off.”
“You’re a dead man,” he barks.
I chuckle again, this time sounding a little unhinged.
“It won’t be my grave you dig. It’ll be yours,” I say and hang up.
Using one arm, I lift my shirt over my head, throwing it to the floor. I take the few short steps toward the bathroom, stripping my sweatpants as I go.
Turning the faucet, the water spurts out and I adjust it and wait until it’s somewhat warm and get under the spray.
Leaning my hands against the wall, I dip my head washing away all my sins.
The water runs cold before I finally shut the faucet off and grab a towel.
Drying my body, even after my killing spree and claiming Savannah I can feel the void.
