She was shaking violently now—legs threatening to give, back arched off the wall, fingers pulsing in my hair in time with her heartbeat.
Hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles, smearing wet heat across my lips, my chin. A thin thread of saliva and her slick connected my tongue to the cotton when I pulled back for a breath. Filthy. Beautiful.
She saw it—eyes fluttering open just long enough—and the sight pushed another broken sob out of her.
We were still in the hallway. Door inches away. Voices and floorboards quiet somewhere deeper in the house. But neither of us moved to open it. Not yet. This—this trembling, filthy, reverent edge we were balanced on—was the best part of the walk.
And neither of us was ready to step over it. Because once we crossed that threshold, the princess would be gone. Only the corrupted little devil would remain—wet, wrecked, and finally free.
****
He carried her to the bed. Excruciatingly slow.
