Page 84 of Cracked Doll

"I'm sorry!" I shriek, my voice cracking. "I'm sorry for what I said! I'll never say it again! Please, Rhys, please!"

He slows down just a fraction, but he doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep inside me, pulsing. "I don't think you're sorry yet, Ophelia. Not nearly sorry enough."

While still inside me, he reaches around and finds my clit. He begins to masturbate me with a brutal, fast motion, his fingers blurring against my swollen flesh. I’m squirming, twisting in his grip, my body a wire stretched to the breaking point. He grinds his fingers into me, relentless and hard, until I explode in another massive orgasm, coming hard on his fingers and his cock, my body shaking with violent tremors.

But the moment I peak, he slams back into me with everything he has. It feels like my vagina is literally tearing open, the friction and the force pushing me past any limit I ever knew.

"I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!" I wail, my head tossing from side to side.

"If you're really sorry," he hisses, his breath hot and ragged, "you'll come one more time for me. Right now."

I shake my head frantically, tears streaming down my face. "I can't... I can't, Rhys, I'm empty, I can't!"

"I'm getting that orgasm out of you," he growls, his voice devoid of mercy, "whether you think you have it left or not."

I’m shaking so hard I can barely breathe, my throat raw and hurting from the screaming. He suddenly pulls out with a wet pop and flips us over. He hits the floor hard, pulling me on top of him. I straddle him, my legs shaking, my pussy dripping and sore.

"Ride me," he commands, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Give it to me. Make us both come. And don't you dare look away from my eyes."

I freeze for a second, the remnants of my fear flickering, but then I slowly sink down onto him. The feeling of him filling me up again is an instant rush of euphoria. I begin to ride him, bouncing on his thick cock, my movements becoming frantic. I throw my head back, my hair spilling over my shoulders, moaning loudly as I fuck him hard.

I look down into his eyes, and for the first time, I don't see a monster to fear. I see my own reflection in those dark, obsessive pupils—and I don't feel a shred of terror. I feel powerful. I feel seen. I hold the contact, almost enjoying the sight of myself mirrored in his madness.

He reaches up, squeezing my breasts with bruising force, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as I bounce. I reach up to my neck, gripping the leather collar and using it as leverage to pull myself down, grinding my clit against his pubic bone before leaping back up in a violent thrust.

Rhys lets out a guttural moan, his face contorting in pleasure. He’s loving this—the way I’m finally taking what I want from him. He reaches up, grabbing the chain and yanking me down hard, crashing his lips against mine in a bruising, desperate kiss. I keep fucking him, my hips moving in a blur, our breaths mingling in a chaotic mess of saliva and heat.

His hands slide down to my hips, locking me in place. He begins to thrust upward, meeting my descent with a violent force that makes me scream directly into his mouth. His cock swells, filling me to the absolute limit, and I can feel the tension snapping in both of us.

We hit the peak together. I scream into his mouth, my entire body locking up as a final, shattering orgasm rips through me, and he groans, his body jerking beneath me as he comes deep inside me, filling me with everything he has. We collapse into each other, moaning into one another's mouths, two broken things finally fitting together.

Chapter 26

I’m sitting in a sticky leather booth at the back of The Rusty Anchor, my father’s favorite haunt. The place is a proper shithole—dimly lit, smelling of stale tobacco, old piss, and cheap disinfectant. A jukebox in the corner is belching out some scratchy, outdated rock anthem that barely drowns out the roar of the regulars, a bunch of weathered, miserable bastards nursing pints and shouting over each other. It’s the kind of place where hope goes to die and the floor is permanently tacky under your boots.

I’m shaking, my fingers twitching against the tabletop. I feel like a fucking ghost in this place. Rhys is beside me, a stark contrast to the grime around us, looking far too polished and dangerous for a pub like this. He’s calm, almost bored, while I’m practically vibrating with nerves.

The waiter arrives, sliding a drink toward me that Rhys ordered. It’s a dark, thick cocktail—something with blackberries and a heavy pour of bourbon, topped with a single, blood-red cherry. It looks like a bruise in a glass.

I stare at the liquid, then look up at Rhys, my voice a shaky whisper. "You sure he's coming? I haven't been by the toy shop in days... he must be completely skint. No money for booze means he's got nothing to lose, but he might just be hiding in a hole somewhere."

Rhys doesn't even blink. "He'll come, love," he says, his voice a smooth, possessive hum. "I've been making sure some of the house staff 'accidentally' leave a few bottles around for him to find. He's hungry for it."

Then, Rhys’s gaze shifts, looking past my shoulder. "Here he is."

I whirl around. Coming through the door is Thomas. He looks fucking pathetic. His clothes are rags, his hair a matted mess, and he reeks of desperation even from across the room. He’s lugging that ancient, heavy TV, dragging it across the floor like it’s his last possession on earth. He stumbles over to the owner, a burly man with a face like a slapped ham, and starts pleading.

I can't hear every word, but I see the desperation. He’s trying to trade the piece of junk for whiskey. The owner sneers, shaking his head at first, but eventually, he gives a reluctant nod. "One bottle," the man grunts. "This thing is a fucking relic. Not worth a drop more."

The owner signals a staff member to haul the TV away to the office, and my father practically lunges for the counter. "A bottle of Jameson! Now!" he bellows.

He doesn't even bother with a glass at first. He knocks back three shots in rapid succession, his throat bobbing, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Then he demands a larger glass, and the bartender fills it to the absolute brim. It takes him only a few minutes to drain the entire bottle, his movements frantic and greedy. When it's gone, he just stares at the empty glass with a look of pure, wretched longing. One bottle isn't enough to kill the demon in him; it just wakes it up.

And that’s when she walks in.

The succubus.

She enters the pub like she owns the air we breathe. She’s wearing a dress that is less of a garment and more of a provocation—a skin-tight, black latex mini-dress that clings to every curve, the neckline plunging dangerously low to reveal the swell of her breasts. On her feet are six-inch stiletto boots that click rhythmically against the floor, sounding like a countdown. Her hair is a waterfall of midnight black, her makeup sharp and predatory, and those gray eyes... they look like storm clouds reflecting a graveyard.