Page 93 of Cracked Doll

I moan, trying to keep quiet like before, but it's harder now that I'm awake. He feels bigger like this, the angle hitting something that makes my toes curl. His balls slap against my arse with every thrust, wet and obscene.

"Rhys—fuck—"

"That's it." He leans down, biting at my jaw. "Say my name while I fuck you properly. Say it while I fill you up again."

His hand leaves my breast and slides down between us, fingers finding my clit. He rubs in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. I'm already close again, the pressure building fast. My thighs tremble around his hips.

"Gonna come again for me?" he asks, voice dark and pleased. "Gonna soak my cock while I'm awake to watch?"

I nod frantically, unable to form words. He fucks me harder, the bed creaking beneath us. His fingers work my clit faster, and I feel the orgasm cresting, threatening to break me apart.

"Come on, love," he murmurs, almost sweet despite how brutally he's pounding into me. "Let me feel it."

I come with a choked cry, cunt pulsing and squeezing around him. My back arches off the bed, and he doesn't stop moving, doesn't stop rubbing my clit through it. The pleasure borders on too much, but I don't want him to stop. I want him to keep going until I'm shaking and spent.

He groans as my walls flutter around him, hips stuttering for a moment before he finds his rhythm again. "Fuck, that's it. Milk my cock. Take everything I give you."

His hand leaves my clit and grips my hip instead, holding me steady as he chases his own release. The thrusts become erratic, desperate. I can feel him swelling inside me, getting closer.

"Ophelia—fuck—"

He buries himself deep and comes with a guttural moan, cock jerking as he pumps another load into me. I feel every pulse, every hot spurt filling me up. He stays there, grinding against me like he wants to push it even deeper.

For a long moment we just breathe, tangled together in the dark. His cock is still inside me, softening slowly. I can feel his cum leaking out around him, trickling down my arse.

Rhys exhales against my neck, pressing a kiss there. "Christ. You're going to be the death of me."

I laugh weakly, still catching my breath. "You started it."

"Mmm." He nuzzles closer, one arm sliding under my shoulders to pull me against him. "And I'll finish it too, if you keep looking at me like that."

I don't even know what look he's talking about, but I don't argue. I just let him hold me, his cum still warm inside me, his heartbeat steady against my back. Outside the window, the night is quiet. Inside, everything feels right.

Chapter 30

Thursday drags like a bloody funeral. I tell Amara I can't do the shopping trip after all. The thought of stepping into a fitting room with mirrors on every wall makes my stomach twist. I know what happens when I catch my own reflection too long—my chest tightens, the edges of the room go fuzzy, and suddenly I'm back in that room watching my sisters die and seeing my reflection on the butcher, and then seeing my sisters’ reflection instead of my own in the mirror. So I send a message to her which Rhys tells me will reach her, saying sorry, and I stay home instead, curled up in Rhys's black t-shirt, watching the rain smear the windows. I know I am better now. I should be. But I won't risk it when Rhys isn't around.

Friday night the whole town transforms. Whitby Goth Weekend kicks off like the place has been waiting all year to shed its skin. Black banners hang from every lamppost along the harbour. The abbey ruins are lit from below with purple floodlights so the stones look bruised. Music leaks out of every pub—goth rock, darkwave, the low thump of drums carried on the sea wind. The streets are packed shoulder to shoulder with people who look like they stepped out of Victorian mourning portraits or vampire films. Lace, velvet, leather, fishnets, corsets, top hats, veils, platform boots that could crush bones. Some have painted their faces chalk-white with black lips and spiderweb eyeliner. Others wear full Victorian mourning with jet jewellery that catches the streetlights. A woman in a floor-length crimson gown glides past me like she's floating. Two lads in leather kilts and silver skull jewellery laugh outside The Royal Hotel, sharing a bottle of absinthe. The smell of incense, sea salt, and frying chips mixes in the air. Every shop window is dressed in black and silver, and the queue outside the music venues snakes down the cobbles.

Rhys chose my outfit himself. He laid it out on the bed like an offering. The dress is floor-length black velvet, so dark it drinks the light. It clings to my waist then flares into a dramatic bell skirt slit high on one thigh. The bodice is structured with silver boning and delicate black lace overlays that look like frost on a window. Long, sheer sleeves end in points over my knuckles. Around my throat sits a wide velvet choker with a single silver crescent moon pendant that rests in the hollow between my collarbones. My hair is down, straightened to a glossy sheet of black with a single white streak dyed in on the left side—Rhys said it made me look like I'd been kissed by lightning. My makeup, done by someone he said does the makeup of The Midnight Menagerie staff, is smoky eyes, blood-red lips, and a dusting of silver highlighter along my cheekbones so I catch the light when I turn my head. On my feet are knee-high platform boots in black patent leather with silver buckles that click when I walk. I look like a goth queen who rules the night instead of hiding from it. When I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror I don't flinch. I almost smile.

Rhys is in his usual uniform—black tailored trousers, a charcoal shirt open at the collar, and a long black coat that moves like smoke when he walks. No costume for him. He says he's not here to play dress-up; he's here to watch me. The coat makes his shoulders look broader, and the way he keeps one hand in his pocket while the other rests on the small of my back feels possessive even in public.

He parks the big black Mercedes right where Amara said she'd be waiting, just off the main drag near the statue of Captain Cook. The engine idles low. He turns to me, eyes dark and amused.

"Have fun, love. I'll be nearby. Stalking you from a respectable distance."

I grin. "You better."

He leans closer, voice dropping. "And when this weekend's done, my mother wants to see you."

I blink. "For what?"

"Because she'll be your mum soon," he says, calm as anything. "And the grandmother of our kids."

I stare at him, heat rising in my cheeks. "We'll see about that later."

He laughs low, pulls me in by the choker, and kisses me hard enough that my lipstick smudges. He holds a black rose for me. It looks obscene against his skin. I take it, smell it, and the scent mixes with the musk of him still on my sheets. Then I push the door open and jump down from the car, the velvet skirt swirling around my legs.