God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

Holy. Shit.

A zap of pleasure strikes the base of my stomach and expands to the rest of my body. I’m still not used to the sensation when he yanks my thighs farther apart and thrusts into my pussy.

My insides recoil and I jerk on the rough wood.

Pain explodes where he tears through me and it hurts. It hurts so much that I cry and try to push at him, but that only makes him thrust again. Brutally.

“Please…please.” I dig my nails into his chest, but I might as well be touching an unfeeling wall.

“Shhh. I told you I’ll break this little cunt, didn’t I? You’re taking my cock so well, Lisichka. Mmm. So fucking tight. Your blood is the best lube I’ve ever had.” He drives in again and my limbs shake from the violence of it.

He doesn’t take it easy. He definitely doesn’t let me adjust.

He’s a beast after his own pleasure and I’m just the vessel at his disposal.

No matter how much I sob and beg, he’s not hearing me. A part of me likes this. I like the primal savagery of it all and how harshly he takes me.

I don’t want him to take it easy on me.

I’d never admit this, but a part of me enjoys how he massacres my hymen and uses my blood and arousal as lube.

He drives inside me with harsh strokes, pulling out to the crown, then ramming back in until my back scrapes on the deck.

He does that over and over until I think I’m going to faint.

But something entirely different happens.

In the middle of the savage fucking and methodical thrusts, my belly tightens, my nipples pucker, and my skin heats so suddenly, I think he’s probably killing me with his thing.

“Mmm. Such a good girl. Do you feel your cunt milking my cock?”

My mouth falls open, but only choked gasps escape. My heart thunders as the tightening heightens and the pain morphs into the exact opposite.

Pleasure.

Boundless.

Absolutely insane.

It’s the type of desire that comes from extreme pain. The knowledge that he wants me so much, he’s hurting me.

He wants to hurt me.

He finds pleasure in chasing, manhandling, and fucking me like an animal.

My insides coil and rebel.

I fall into it.

Into being ravaged, taken, taken, and taken.

He craves my softness as much as I yearn for his dominant cruelty.

“You’re addictive. I want to break you.” Thrust. “Own you.” Thrust. “Mark you.”

He accentuates the last statement by biting my throat in the exact spot he did yesterday.

Everything inside me comes crashing down as sharp pain and pleasure overlap and detonate me all at once.

I’m falling and screaming and moaning, and he’s still fucking me.

He’s thrusting inside me like a madman, and then he’s feasting on my neck, biting, sucking, licking. I can feel him stiffening before warmth floods my insides.

And then he lifts his head, chasing crimson red off his lips with his tongue.

My blood.

He’s marked me fully, thoroughly.

It’s painful, it’s erotic.

It’s wrong.

But feels absolutely right.





15





CECILY





You’re disgusting.

My eyes slowly open, but the memories don’t vanish.

They glare, snarl, and sink their sharp claws into the tender flesh of my consciousness.

Why are they coming right now? I’m over that part of me, have completely erased it and found myself a new beginning.

At least, I hope so.

An old wooden ceiling materializes above me and I attempt to move.

One problem: I can’t.

My muscles are slack and I have no control over them. It’s then I realize that I haven’t completely opened my eyes and only a slit allows me to catch a glimpse of the ceiling.

A sharp sting of nerves explodes all over my limbs, and my brain revs to full capacity.

I know this feeling too well. The muted panic, the distorted consciousness, and the invisible black hands of panic squeezing my heart and squashing my chest bones.

That’s exactly what happened when I was caught in a trap, had to feel every sting of its sharp edges, and inhale every polluted breath, but I couldn’t escape.

I couldn’t move.

I wanted to, I really did, and I fought and thrashed. I kicked, screamed, and wailed.

But it all happened in my head.

The scene repeats in tiny bursts of black.

Black.

Black.

And more damn black.

I try to regulate my breathing, but I have no control over that either. My inhales and exhales erupt in a mixture of choppy sounds.

This isn’t the first time sleep paralysis has found refuge inside me. This out-of-body experience is even more frequent after those gruesome nightmares.

The more I fight the heavy weight on my chest, the black hands squeezing the life out of me, the more I’ll drive myself into panic mode, so I force myself to remain still.

To let it pass.

It will eventually. No matter how scary it is or how much I want to cry, it’ll eventually disappear.

Little by little, a dull ache explodes all over my skin, falling in sync with my irregular intake of air. Then, something warm and soothing snakes over the pillowy skin between my legs.

A cloth, a towel, or a mouth.

A moan slips from my lips as I attempt to stimulate my muscles but fail miserably.