Page 107 of Our Pretty Darling Psycho
And this woman—my wonderful psychotic beauty of a woman—rides the line between them with a mastery that leaves me breathless. She is the mastermind who dismantled institutions from within a straitjacket, the psychotic queen who wears insanity like couture, and right now, she has chosen to gift me Violet:that seductive splinter sharp enough to draw blood and sweet enough to make one beg for the wound.
Her hips begin to move, a deliberate roll that drags her slick heat along my hardening length. Up, then down, enveloping me completely in velvet fire.
A groan tears from my throat, low and unrestrained, as pleasure spikes through my veins like lightning seeking ground.
“Fucking hell, Violet,” I rasp, hands gripping her waist with possessive reverence. “Look at you, claiming what’s yours. Thank the heavens and every shadowed corner I ever haunted that I proved worthy of your choosing. You could have burned us all and walked away laughing, yet here you are, riding me into sweet oblivion.”
She gives me that taunting look—mismatched eyes gleaming with calculated mischief, pupils blown wide with lust—and it sends a fresh surge of blood south.
I chuckle, the sound manic and delighted, pressing a finger to my lips in mock secrecy while balancing on one braced arm.
“Shh, my darling. This particular confession stays safe with me. Your secrets are my most treasured relics.”
Violet grins, feral and radiant, leaning down to capture my mouth in a feverish kiss.
Our tongues duel, slick and demanding, as she works her hips with increasing fervor—rising until only the tip remainsinside her, then slamming down with precision that borders on artistry.
The wet sounds of our joining fill the quiet room, obscene counterpoint to the crackle of dying embers. Her inner walls flutter and clench around me, a rhythmic symphony that tests every ounce of my control.
I praise her with every breath, words spilling like incense offered at an altar of madness and desire.
“Perfect, relentless creature. Every descent marks me as yours. Feel how you own me? How this cock weeps for the privilege of filling you?”
My free hand roams upward, palming the lush curve of her breast, thumb circling the tightened peak until she arches with a breathy moan.
Obsession coils tighter in my chest—this woman who outthinks gods and monsters alike, reduced to trembling want beneath my touch, yet still directing the performance with that insane, brilliant core of hers.
She quickens her pace, grinding down with a roll that catches her clit against my pelvis, and I hiss through clenched teeth as pressure builds at the base of my spine. My fingers dig into the soft flesh of her ass, guiding her deeper, possessive instinct flaring bright.
“That’s it—use me, Violet. Take every inch like the queen you are. I’m yours to ruin.”
The friction turns devastating. Her scent floods my senses, strawberries caramelizing under heat, chocolate melting into sin, that metallic thread humming like a live wire. I feel her tightening, the precipice yawning, and when release crashes over her, I grip hard and pull her flush against me, burying myself to the hilt as my own climax rips free. Hot pulses flood her depths, sealing the moment in shared ecstasy.
We pant together, foreheads pressed, laughter threatening at the edges of our breaths once more—a rom-com absurdity woven into our dark romance.
But the wilder part of me stirs, Crowe fully awakening with a predatory grin. I hook an arm around her waist and flip our positions with fluid strength, though I keep her atop me for this breath, savoring the view.
“I want to fuck you hard and fast now,” I murmur, voice dropping into gravel and smoke. “Are you going to let me?”
Violet shoots me a cynical glance over her shoulder, one brow arched in that signature blend of challenge and invitation. It is consent, pure and unspoken, and it ignites fresh fire in my blood. I smirk, tugging at her plump bottom lip with my teeth before releasing it.
“Use your words, my Violet. I need to hear that brilliant, fractured mind surrender them.”
She pouts—actually pouts, the expression so disarmingly at odds with the lethal calculation behind her eyes that I nearly lose composure.
“Fuck me the way I like it, Crowe.”
The command, delivered in that emotionless yet hungry timbre, unleashes me.
This facet of her craves the edge without the softening veil of sentiment, yet still yearns for the foreplay that makes roughness sing.
I maneuver her onto all fours, tousling her hair with one hand as I tower behind her, the firelight casting long shadows across the elegant line of her spine and the generous curve of her ass.
My palm connects with her flesh in a sharp slap that echoes satisfyingly, watching the skin bloom pink.
She gasps, pushing back into the sting, and I chuckle darkly.
“Such a responsive little psycho,” I praise, leaning over her to nip at her earlobe. “Tell me, darling—do you like it in this tight, forbidden place?” My fingers trace downward, circling the puckered entrance with teasing intent.
