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

My fingers are slack on the soft surface beneath me. My chest heaves due to the demon that’s perching over me, scraping at the sensitive flesh of my heart, and my head is a jumbled mess.

But my pussy? That doesn’t feel like part of my physical being. Or more like, the sensations running through it are separate.

It bursts with comforting energy. I focus on it, and my heart chases away the ghost of the black hands as it thunders back to life. My limbs gradually loosen and so does my brain capacity.

Just like that, events slam back in. The mask. The chase. The haunted property. Being taken on the deck. The blood. The knife.

Everything.

My chest quakes and I moan softly as the pleasure washes over me, slowly but surely untying the knot in my muscles.

His teeth nibble on my most intimate part and I realize it’s definitely his mouth, not a cloth or a towel.

Did Jeremy go down on me while I was out of it?

This is so sick.

Or it’s supposed to be, because the thought that he took me again, not caring whether I was awake or not, is kind of hot.

Not that I would admit it out loud.

God, I’m so ashamed of how much I loved my first time. I’ve known I had abnormal tendencies since I was sixteen, but I always thought they’d remain tucked in the dark corners of my heart as inaccessible fantasies.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d grow enough courage to act on them.

So the fact that I not only agreed to Jeremy’s terms, but also allowed his beast to fuck me raw surpassed all my expectations and decimated them into smithereens.

And wow.

Since when do I even say the word ‘fuck,’ even in my head?

This man has been in my life for a short amount of time, but he’s already corrupting me. He’s making me wish and think of things that should’ve never seen the light of day.

My attempts to fully open my eyes fail again, or maybe I’m just too tired to do it, so I don’t force it and try to focus on my environment instead.

His mouth has disappeared from my pussy, triggering a cold shiver and a map of goosebumps.

My body is covered with something, and I’m probably lying on a mattress.

Maybe he brought me back to the cottage. I was somewhat aware of that when he carried me in his arms earlier.

Everything after that, however, is a blur. I definitely fell asleep if I was able to have that nightmare about my supposedly finished past.

I can feel Jeremy’s presence beside me. It’s impossible to ignore the suffocating intensity radiating off him.

It’s how I sensed him following me all those weeks ago. And since it’s otherworldly, it can be felt by his absence, too, which is why I’ve been inexplicably empty, walking around with my attention scattered everywhere in case he showed up.

Right now, I don’t only feel him, but I also smell him, wood and leather, and I sense the warmth emitting from him. It’s weird to associate warmth with someone like Jeremy, but he is. Warm. At least, his body is hot-blooded.

His personality, however, is ice-cold.

Not to mention deviant.

He has the type of sexually deviant behavior that serial killers possess.

It’s abnormal, dangerous, and might lead him down a destructive path.

What does that make me if I enjoy it?

My question remains hanging in the dark as he appears in the slit of my eyes, dressed all in black like a fallen angel, but I don’t see the entirety of him.

It’s mere glimpses of his chest, hints of the tattoos cording along his muscles, and his hands.

The large, veiny, and destructive hands that he touched, probed, and owned me with.

Jeremy pulls the sheet from my chest and my nipples puff and tighten at the friction from the fabric.

I can feel his raw gaze on me and the nefarious undertone that holds no other purpose than to devour me.

Only Jeremy would be able to make someone uncomfortable in their own skin with a mere glance.

The tip of his finger presses on my perky nipple and the cut from earlier burns, but Jeremy doesn’t stop.

I doubt he even knows how to at this point. Which is bizarre, considering he’s the most self-controlled person I know.

He squeezes the bud until I’m squirming, then he glides that same finger to my neck, to the assaulted, bruised spot he bit on, and presses again.

My lips part as soft moans spill out of my throat. The sound only invites him to use more force, as if my pain is his pleasure.

As if he enjoys driving me to the edge with his wicked touch and evil hands.

“So fucking breakable, Lisichka. I love how sensitive you are,” he muses, tone slightly amicable.

I want to drown in it.

I want him to speak to me in that tone forever. The satiated one. While the beastly version from earlier exceeded my fantasies, this is the version I prefer right now.

The caring one.

Well, caring might be an overstatement, but he at least doesn’t sound like he hates me.

Or is annoyed with me.

He sounds like he wants me for me. Not for any other reason than for me being myself.

His touch heightens in intensity, pinching, compressing, squeezing. “You have no idea how much I want to eat you up, bleed your porcelain skin and swallow you whole.”

The rich timbre of his voice sneaks beneath my flesh, drawing out the demented part of me I’ve been keeping under wraps for years.

“I crave your innocence, your fear, and your pain.” He spreads his fingers across the skin of my throat. “I’ve been fantasizing about bruising and marking this skin while you shattered around my cock and screamed and whimpered because it was too much. But here’s the twist. You love it when it gets too much.”