Page 154 of House of Cards
But it’s not enough.
My dick is hard again, grinding into the side of her belly. I wish fucking her against this wall would put an end to my suffering, but it wouldn’t come close.
What I want isn’t normal or sane or approaching decent. Hasn’t been for a long fucking time.
That doesn’t stop me twisting open the button on the top of her pants. Pulling down the zipper.
She grabs that wrist, tries to pull me away. “Stop. You’re covered in?—“
“Whose fault is that?” I press my lips to her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose. Rake my teeth over her jaw. “Spread your fucking legs, or you’ll be wearing my bite marks on this pretty face for the rest of your life.”
Her body shivers against mine. The grip around my wrist is still tight, but she doesn’t stop me when I slide my hand between her legs. Or when I slip two fingers inside her and start fucking her pussy.
Instead, she grabs the top of her pants and shoves them down, opening her thighs so I can fuck her even harder.
As a reward, I tighten the grip on her throat. Kiss her other cheekbone. Her forehead.
I can smell my blood on her skin. A tantalizing perfume, when it mixes with her arousal. I glance down, trying but failing to hold back a groan when I see the bloody mess between her legs. How her hips buck as she rides my fingers.
“Christ, Zoey, you’re so fucking wet.” When I look back at her, she’s staring into my eyes. Her lips parted, her soft pants painting warmth against my neck.
My tongue darts out to lap the skin beside her mouth. The salty, metallic tang of blood fills my mouth, and I’m fucking gone.
Gone.
The sounds I make as I lick her chin, her lips, her jaw…they belong to a beast, not a man. A wild medley of growling, sucking, panting.
Zoey comes, her body locking up, a deep groan spilling from the lips I’m sucking. She tries to kiss me in the throes of her orgasm, but I tear my mouth away from hers.
It’s not what I want.
I find another trace of blood beneath her chin and suck it off her skin hard enough to bruise.
She’s not just trembling now.
She’s quaking.
Her chest hitching. Small, pitiful little sounds escaping her lips.
“P-Please,” she stammers, grabbing my wrist. “St-stop. I’m done. Please. Stop!”
But her pathetic whimpers just spur my prey drive even more.
“Again,” I growl, fingering her faster.
“I—don’t—please,” she pants out, letting out a panicked sound when I drop to my knees in front of her. I rip her pants down to her ankles, shove her thighs open, and clamp my mouth over her pussy.
Christ.
So much fucking blood.
Is that why I’m so lightheaded?
No, of course not.
It’s the sick, twisted glee spreading inside me.
The rot.
