Taken (Dark Legacy Duet 1)

She slaps both hands, one wet, onto the mirror as I fuck her, both of us panting, breath damp and hot, her cunt dripping, greedy around me, sucking me up, squeezing me hard.

Within moments, she’s coming and then I’m coming. My mouth is pressed against the side of her face. I can hear her breathe, hear her come, and fuck I want to fill her up and keep her full of me, put my seed inside her, make her hold it there, keep a piece of me inside her because with her, I can’t ever get enough.

I can’t ever get close enough.

Deep enough.

I hold her to me as I slide out, take two steps back, and we sit on the floor. We’re out of breath. She’s cradled between my knees, and I push hers open. We watch our combined cum leak out of her pussy, the sound of the TV—an infomercial selling a miracle face cream—finally coming into focus as our breathing settles.

She looks at me over her shoulder, and hate is inside her eyes. Hate and rage.

I like her like this. I like her angry. Feral. And when she spins and lunges at me, her hands claws, like a cat, I grab her wrists and laugh and topple onto my back. She’s on top of me, and we’re a half-dressed, sloppy mess.

She’s battling me. I think if I let her go, she’ll claw my eyes out.

“Not like this,” I say, flipping us over so her back is on the rug. I know it burns. I know the fresh stripes on her back burn like hell, and I push her down into the rough carpet. “A notch,” I say.

She stops. I let her up a little, let her go, and she leans against the bed, legs still wide, knees up so I can see her cunt, the dress a rag held to her waist by two buttons.

“You said no notches. Not here.”

“But you said you didn’t want that. And then you proved it. You want it rough. You don’t want me nice.”

“You’re not nice,” she says.

“No, you’re right, I’m not. And now, I get a notch.”

She swallows. I stand, go into the other room where my cell phone is in my jacket pocket, and dial the front desk. I order a bottle of champagne and a paring knife. I know they think I’m crazy, but when I’m spending this kind of money, I could give a fuck.

I hang up. She’s standing in the doorway, nearly naked from the waist up, her hair a mess, cum sliding down her thigh and over the inside of her knee. I give her a grin. Fuck. She’s beautiful like this. Fucking crazy. Feral.

That’s the word. Like a cat. A wild, feral cat.

I take her into the bathroom. She doesn’t fight me when I strip off her clothes and mine and run the shower—cool because I’m considerate of her fresh wounds—and we step inside. I wash her and kiss her and want to fuck her again.

When we’re out and dried off, I walk into the living room where the champagne and the paring knife have been delivered. She follows me. We’re both naked. I pop the cork on the champagne and pour two flutes but leave them on the tray and pick up the knife.

She backs up a step.

I take hold of her, pull her to me, look down over her naked body, and hold out the handle of the knife to her.

She looks at it, cautiously looks at me.

“My notch,” I say, holding out my arm, the one scarred by the last notch.

She takes the knife, eyes still narrowed like she’s expecting me to pounce, to turn the tables.

Holding her wrist, I guide her hand to me. “Carve it out.”

“You’re sick.”

“Do it.”

She shakes her head no.

“Do it, Willow Girl,” I say through gritted teeth. “And make it hurt.”17HelenaA hint of red comes through the gauze on the inside of his arm. I look at it as he puts on a dress shirt.

He had to make me do it. I couldn’t. Like the last time when I held my pocketknife to his belly and couldn’t do it. He looks at me as he slides the cuff links through the slits at his cuffs. Raw, unpolished diamonds, the color of charcoal. Like his eyes.

I’m still naked, holding a flute of champagne, not having taken a sip. He pours his second glass. “Don’t you like champagne?”

“It’s for celebrations. We’re not celebrating anything.”

“Sure we are. You and me, Helena. We’re celebrating the fact that we understand each other.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Our sexual compatibility—”

I snort.

He grins.

“Sweetheart, when I fuck you sweet, your orgasm is a fucking murmur. But when I fuck you hard, when I whip you, fuck. Your cunt swallows up my cock like it can’t get enough.”