The Prototype

67. Veil of Desire, Shadow of Blood

MARCELLUS

The shrill chime of my 5 a.m. alarm sliced through the silence, yanking me from the depths of sleep. A groan rumbled low in my throat as I reached blindly toward the nightstand, silencing the sound with a lazy swipe of my fingers. My body stirred, muscles tightening, the dull ache of satisfaction still humming through me. But the second my palm met cold, empty sheets instead of warm, soft skin, my brows knit together. My fingers glided across the bedding, searching—expecting the heat of her body, the steady rise and fall of her breathing beside me. My consciousness fully settling, realization struck.

Tempest is gone.

My eyes opened, scanning the space beside me. Empty. The imprint of her body lingering in the disheveled sheets, a cruel reminder of her presence, in my arms—until she wasn't.

When the fuck did she leave?

A slow, sharp exhale left my lips as I pushed up onto my elbows. The remnants of last night still clinging to me like a drug—her scent embedded in my sheets, in my skin, in every breath I took. My mind turned into a battlefield of memories:

The sound of her voice, her raw, unfiltered moans when she'd challenged me to ruin her. The defiance in her eyes when she'd dared me to fuck her until I earned my forgiveness. Until I proved just how much I value every single inch of her body. That no boundary could say otherwise.

I don't need to pin her down. I don't need to take any of her control, or strip her of her power to break her. No, I wanted her to give it to me willingly—to surrender, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Because she wanted me to take her past the edge of reason, to break her until pleasure was the only thing she could feel.

And she did.

My fingers curled into the sheets, my jaw flexing as the memory swallowed me whole.

The way she'd tasted on my tongue—sweet, intoxicating, fucking addictive. Like she was made for me to devour, to feast on until I was drunk on her. I could still feel her trembling beneath me, her thighs quivering as I licked, sucked, owned every inch of her. The way her clit pulsed against my tongue, swollen and desperate, her body responding to me like it had no choice.

The way she'd arched her back, offering herself to me, every inch of her body begged for more. The perfect swell of her breasts, her nipples pebbling under my tongue as I sucked, bit, teased—dragging every last ounce of pleasure from her before I gave her what she really needed.

That satisfaction, that rush of power, as her moans turned into whimpers. Into cries. Into desperate fucking screams.

The way her body had writhed beneath me when I slid my dick inside her, stretching her wide, filling her, fucked her like she was made for me. The way she'd taken me. Every brutal inch, every rough, merciless thrust. Her body clenched around me like she never wanted to let go. The slick, obscene sound of her taking me deeper, the wet slap of our bodies colliding.

The sight of her orgasm—The way her body had betrayed her.

The way her legs trembled, her thighs locked as wave after wave of pleasure wrecked her, left her powerless against it. The way she tried to fight it, tried to hold on—her nails carved into my back, her teeth sank into my shoulder, her breath hitched as she clung to the last thread of control—only to break completely.

And the way she'd squirted.

Her juices sprayed over me, over the sheets, over everything in its wake—like she had no control. Like I had wrung every last drop of resistance from her body until there was nothing left to give. She'd turned into my personal sprinkler, soaking me in her essence, marking me in the way only she could.