Kill Me Like A Lover « Enver Gortash & The Dark Urge [fem+named] » 🔞 ✔️

A master. A slave.

He pulls me in, mouth still hungrily devouring my arm inch by inch, while his free hand frantically unties my cloak, revealing my simple shirt and long skirt underneath.

"You used to wear fancier things." He side-eyes my clothing, not letting it distract him from my skin too much. "And would get mad when I tore them to shreds. This is perfect."

My sluggish thoughts haven't even begun to analyze the meaning in his words when he presses me flush to his chest, moving from nibbling on my shoulder to assaulting my mouth. I gasp for the breath he keeps stealing with every touch, but let him surround me and trap me with his body. I feel his desperate need mirroring my own. His taste is surprisingly sweet, with just a hint of hot spice.

"No," I manage to mumble through our locked lips, grasping at the last straws of control. My hand is finally free—I try stabbing him in the crook of his neck. He yelps and groans, but my muscles are so useless I've barely scratched him. A thin streak of blood trickles out of the cut, marring the delicate fabric of his robe.

"You thought that would stop me?" he purrs, pulling the robe off his body. "Your knives left more than one scar on me. It was our thing."

I stare at his muscly, hairy chest, mute. I see scars on his torso, criss-crossing his skin like a crude carving. That can't be my doing... But the metallic scent of his blood sends a new sort of excitement through me. I know it's my Urge, I know it's not really me, but my will is weakened. My hand raises and cuts him again—just a little, but enough to satisfy the craving.

"Your body remembers," he whispers into my ear, standing my hair on their ends.

His gloved hand caresses my arm and shoulder and closes around my throat. I gasp in panic, or I think I do, but heat pools in my lower regions in response. He presses a touch harder; his gold ornaments are digging into my skin, claws pinching my nape and my head is starting to swim with lack of oxygen. My fingers wrap around his wrist, but for some reason I don't pull him away.

"Every time you hurt me, I will hurt you back," he promises in a sweet, sin-filled voice. "Call it our love language."

He lets go of my neck, hands roughly gripping my waist instead. He twirls us around and sits me on top of his desk. I fumble to find balance and end up sending his documents, ink and quills all over the floor. Instead of complaining, he eagerly swipes the rest of the items off the surface and pushes me down on my back.

The panic it triggers gives me back a chunk of my reason. Instead of letting him, I fight back, clawing at his bare chest with my nails and my dagger, leaving bloody gashes over his skin.

His head lolls back for a moment, which makes me realize I'm not helping at all. He's enjoying the pain I give him. He takes fistfuls of my shirt and bends down to bite my shoulder—hard. I yelp, reaching into his hair to pull him away, but he's already ripping clothes off of my torso, baring my skin, spilling my breasts.

"My memory doesn't do you justice," he rasps, grazing my curves with his gaze alone. The reverent look on his face sets my loins on fire.

I'm beginning to understand how I could've let him so close to me. A young, confused little thing, raised in worship of the Lord of Murder, would have no idea what love looks like. I'm still learning and stumbling, despite Halsin's best efforts. A man who could make her feel so beautiful, so wanted among all the blood and death... such a man would have had the key to her rotten little heart.

I'm not that girl anymore. But I know that feeling. Its draw is familiar and powerful. My hands let go of his hair and fall next to my head, letting him run his rough palms across my chest and knead the pliant shape of my breasts.