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I want to see everything—the way his cock disappears inside me, inch by thick inch, the way my body swallows him whole.

I want to bounce up and down on his dick like a woman possessed and watch it vanish into me over and over until neither of us can remember our own names.

And it's like Legion is reading my mind, because he smooths a piece of sweaty hair out of my face with two rough fingers, tucking it behind my ear with more tenderness than a man built like a weapon should be capable of.

His eyes catch mine, dark and knowing, and he whispers against my temple, low and rasped, "Don't worry, woman. I'll fuck you again in a couple hours." His grip tightens on my hip, punctuating the promise. "And I'll make sure you're naked so you can get a proper show."

Then he's got his hand between my legs, fingers rough and confident as they slide through obscene wetness. Guiding the swollen, blunt tip of his cock up to my entrance with the kind of patience that feels like torture.

He drags it through my folds once, twice, coating himself in me, teasing the place where I need him most until I'm shaking, until I'm gripping his shoulders and biting back a whine that would embarrass me if I had the sense left to care.

One hand goes to my shoulder, broad palm settling there with the weight of command, and he presses down, making me sit. Making me take him.

My thighs tremble as I sink lower, as the thick head of him breaches me, stretching me open inch by inch, and I have to remind myself to breathe because for a second the world narrows down to nothing but the place where we're joined.

His cock is so hard and stiff inside me, so impossibly thick, that I can feel him in my belly—a deep, aching pressure that steals the air from my lungs.

My mouth falls open on a silent gasp. Every nerve ending in my body seems to converge right there, right where he's splitting me open, claiming territory that's always belonged to him even when I tried to convince myself otherwise.

His fingers are in my mouth before I even register his hand moving—two of them, pressing past my lips without warning, and I make a startled sound around them that gets swallowed by my own throat.

"Open." Like I have a choice. Like I wasn't already opening for him the second he touched me.

He works his cock up into me at the same time, same rhythm, same brutal patience, and I understand what he's doing—making my mouth match my pussy, making both of me his to fill.

I lick him instead of fighting it. Drag my tongue along the salt-rough pads of his fingers, taste the ghost of gun oil and cigarettes that never quite leaves his skin, and he groans low in his chest like that wrecks him more than anything I've done today.

He pushes deeper, testing, and I gag—can't help it—throat closing around him the same second my pussy clenches around his cock, both of us feeling it happen together.

Saliva pools, too much to swallow around his fingers, and I let it spill. Down my chin, my throat, dripping onto the collar of my dress, and I don't wipe it away.

I want him to see it.

A moment later I gasp in pain—sharp, unexpected, cutting through the fog of everything else he's doing to me. His arm has snaked behind me while I wasn't paying attention, muscle flexing against my spine, and now his finger presses hard against my asshole, blunt and insistent, circling like he's asking permission he has no intention of waiting for.

I try to twist away instinctively, the way my body always reacts to something new, something forbidden, but his cock is still buried inside me, his fingers still hooked deep in my mouth, and there's nowhere for me to go. I'm pinned between all three points of him—filled and stretched and owned in every direction at once.

"My dirty angel," Legion moans, voice wrecked and low, dragging over my skin like gravel. "My filthy little slutty, takes-it-in-the-ass angel." His finger presses harder, just at the rim, testing how much I'll give him without breaking. "Is this how you want to spend eternity? With me filling all your holes?”

I can't answer him—not with words, not with anything resembling language—because my mouth is stuffed full of his fingers, saliva still slipping past my lips in thin silver threads.

But yes. God, yes. The thought slams through me louder than anything I could actually say out loud, louder than the ache blooming low in my belly, louder than the pain sparking bright at the edge of that touch.

This is exactly how I want to spend eternity.

Filled up, pinned down, claimed in every place a body can be claimed, with him whispering filthy hymns against my throat like they're the only prayers he's ever meant.

I moan around his fingers instead, the only answer I have left, and feel him smile against my skin like he already knew.

"You will come for me like this," he says. And it's not a request.

It's a command, low and rough and dangerous, scraped straight from somewhere ancient in him.

I can see the demon in him sometimes, glimpses of whatever lives beneath the tattoos and the silence.

Not often. He keeps it leashed most days.

But sometimes it slips its collar and looks straight out at me through his eyes, and this—right here, right now, with his fingers buried inside my mouth and my ass and his cock splitting me open—this is one of those times.