Page 69 of Cracked Doll

I hook my thumbs in the waistband and push. He helps, shoving them down until his cock springs free—long, fat, flushed dark at the head, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the slit. It bobs between us, heavy and ready.

Rhys doesn’t waste time. His hands clamp around my waist and he lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the cold stone at my back contrasting with the heat of his body. My bare cunt presses against the length of his cock, slick and throbbing.

I look him dead in the eye. “Please, Rhys.”

He answers with his mouth. He kisses down my throat, teeth scraping my pulse, tongue flicking over the hollow at the base. One hand stays under my arse, holding me up, while the other slides between us. His fingers find my clit and rub in tight, wet circles. I moan, hips jerking, grinding against his hand. He dips lower, two fingers pushing inside me, curling, stroking that spot that makes my vision blur. My cunt clenches around him, dripping down his wrist.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes against my collarbone. “Gonna stretch you so good.”

He pulls his fingers out and lines his cock up. The fat head nudges my entrance, too big, too thick. He pushes. I feel the pressure, the burn, the way my body resists. Then he thrusts—hard, sudden. The head pops inside and I scream, the sound raw and echoing off the ruins. My nails dig into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop. He lowers me slowly, inch by inch, forcing the rest of that long, fat cock deeper until I’m impaled, stuffed full, his balls pressed against my arse.

I tremble, eyes rolling back, back arching hard against the stone. It feels like he’s splitting me open, like he’s reaching places no one’s ever touched—deep, so deep I swear I can feel him in my belly. The stretch burns, aches, but it’s perfect, overwhelming. Rhys moans low in his throat, a guttural sound of pure possession.

He cups my face, forces my eyes open, makes me look at him. His eyes are black in the moonlight, pupils blown wide, but there’s something colder underneath—obsession, hunger, something that promises he’ll never let me go.

“You’re mine, Ophelia Sorrell,” he says, voice low and vicious. “Every inch of this cunt belongs to me. I’ll carve my name into your fucking soul if I have to. You’ll never look at another man again. You’ll never breathe without thinking of my cock inside you. I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone take you from me.”

He presses me harder against the wall and starts to thrust. Slow at first, dragging that thick length almost all the way out before sinking back in. It hurts—sharp, stretching pain with every movement—but he soothes me with kisses, murmuring against my lips, “That’s it, cracked doll. Take it. Breathe for me.”

The sting fades, replaced by something hotter, wetter. Pleasure coils low in my belly, building with each slow drag of his cock. My cunt flutters around him, greedy, slick coating us both.

Rhys’s pace picks up. His hands grip my hips, fingers bruising. His mouth finds my tits, sucking one nipple hard, teeth grazing, tongue swirling. I start moving with him, rolling my hips to meet every thrust, chasing the friction. He fucks me harder, slamming me against the stone, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the ruins.

I moan his name, loud, desperate. “Rhys—fuck—Rhys!”

He growls, eyes flashing. “Say it again.”

“Rhys!”

My hands claw at his back, nails leaving red lines. My eyes roll back, flutter shut, then snap open when he snarls, “Look at me.”

He fucks me senseless, pounding into me, each thrust punching the air from my lungs. I take every inch, greedy, cunt squeezing him like I’ll die if he stops. He reaches between us, fingers finding my clit, tapping fast and sharp.

“Don’t you fucking dare come,” he hisses. “Not until I say.”

I shake my head, trembling. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

He fucks me harder, torturing me with his cock, grinding deep, the head battering that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. I grab his face, pull him in, bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Let me come,” I grit out.

Rhys growls, dark and vicious. “You come when I tell you, or I’ll fuck you until you pass out and I still won’t let you finish.”

He slams into me, brutal, relentless. I scream into his mouth as he kisses me bruisingly, tongue forcing past my teeth. We fuck like animals, sweat-slick, desperate. I feel his muscles lock, his cock swelling inside me, stretching me even more.

“Now,” he commands. “Come for me.”

I shatter. My cunt clamps down, pulsing, milking him as I come so hard I see stars—literal stars exploding behind my eyes. Rhys groans, hips stuttering, and floods me deep, hot cum pumping into me in thick pulses. He buries his face in my neck, voice ragged against my ear.

“I love you, Ophelia Sorrell.”

‎The words of love are still echoing in my ears, the heat of Rhys’s seed still pulsing deep inside my cunt, when the world suddenly snaps.

‎Before I can even blink, before I can wrap my arms around him and sink into that possessive warmth, Rhys’s hand flashes. He’s got a fistful of that cursed black sand, and with a sudden, violent motion, he flings it straight into my eyes.

‎"What the fuck—!"

‎The scream dies in my throat. The world doesn't just blur; it dissolves. The scent of ozone and old stone vanishes, replaced by something sickeningly familiar. The smell of cheap floral perfume, stale biscuits, and the metallic tang of old radiators.