Page 270 of Blessed
“That you’re no mountain. You’re only a man—a pathetic one, at that. And soon you won’t be anything at all. But I should warn you,” she added, smiling. “I think this is going to hurt.”
And Chris Johnathan, esteemed professor of creative writing and three-time runner-up for the Booker Prize, died to the sound of his own desperate screams and her low, husky laughter.
“I think you did it, sweetheart,” Luke said, staring at Kara in admiration and not a little bit of fear. “He’s dead.”
Kara rose to her feet. There was blood everywhere, splattered in her hair, across her cheek, down her bare body. Her golden-brown eyes were bright with satisfaction and not a little bit of blood lust. The knife was still in her hand, and Chris Johnathan lay at her feet.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
Never looked more alive.
Never looked moretheirs.
“Come here,” he ordered.
She walked toward him, dropping the knife so it clattered to the cement floor. There wasn’t a lot of room in the cell, but he’d make do. He needed to touch her, to be inside her, to celebrate that they’d made it.So, he lifted her up with his good arm and, without preamble or preparation, lowered her down onto his cock.
She was already so wet she slid easily onto him, and fuck,fuck,she felt good.
She felt like coming home.
He held her like that for a while, just indulging in her tight pussy around his cock, squeezing him, welcoming him where he had always and would always belong.
And then Conor was coming up behind her, moving easily, and he was parting her ass cheeks and pushing in one finger, then two.
“Kara, my sweet girl,” he said, “Do you remember when I told you I was going to use the professor’s—Christopher’s—blood as lube?”
Luke watched as her big eyes went wide.
And then her eyes went wider and she made a desperate sound of pleasure as Conor did as he’d said, working his fingers and then his cock inside her ass. Luke could feel Conor’s cock through the thin membrane of her pussy.
They were connected. In love. Whole.
And alive.
And then he was distracted, because Micah was spitting on his hand and then working his own huge, thick cock into Luke’s ass. Luke grew impossibly harder, not just at the sensation of fucking and being fucked, but by the way all their bodies pressed close together, the way their hearts beat together, the way Kara cried out as he and Conor took turns pumping in and out of her, and as Micah thrust into him athis own rhythm, one only known to the Machiavellian deviant he loved, and Conor grunted, and Micah groaned and crooned filth and love at all of them, and Luke stared deep into Kara’s eyes and knew that he was home, that he belonged here forever, with them.
That they would have forever together.
So, he fucked into her harder, and harder, not ready to come yet, but ready to send her there.
Ready to do anything for their girl.
If you’d asked Kara—back when she lived in Chicago in her sad little life with her sad little belief that being alone meant being free—if she’d ever find herself covered in the blood of a man she’d ruthlessly murdered, she’d have said no. If you’d then asked her if she’d find herself covered in blood while being fucked from both ends by the loves of her life, while the third thrust into the second’s ass, she would have told you hell no. But secretly, she would have fantasized about it, and when she did, these three men would’ve starred in her fantasies.
Life wasn’t a fantasy. Life was messy, and bloody, and raw, and so, she had learned, was love. It wasn’t going to be easy, and it wasn’t ever going to feel like a fairy tale. But then Kara Blum had never been a girl who cared much about fairy tales. Deep down, she’d always empathized with the villains.
Instead, she luxuriated in the present moment. Here, now, with the men she loved, being fucked into orgasm after orgasm, her eyes on Luke’s, Conor’s kisses on her neck, gripping Micah’s hands around Luke’s waist. Together, fuckingor not, murdering or not, arguing or not, this, this was all she had ever wanted and not known she needed.
This, here, was home. This was where she belonged.
“Home,” she gasped out loud, as Luke hit a spot inside her that made her spiral tighter and tighter.
“What’s that, sweet girl?” Conor asked as he pushed into her from behind and held himself there.
“All of you—the three of you—wherever we are. Home.” They weren’t the perfect words, but the fact that her brain was working at all was impressive.
Conor sighed, sliding out, then in again. “Yeah, home.”