Don't Stop

by Lauren Biel

This is for my readers who are brave enough for a mix of dark humor, spice, Frankenpeens, and corpse threesomes. Ride or die! Well . . . ride AND die.

See, I like the sight and smell of blood—the life force within the veins of all things living—but I really love to taste it.

With the taste of her blood in my mouth, I couldn’t drive home. Not yet. Her life force swirls around inside my mind and makes me horny as fuck. Can’t say blood has ever made my dick this hard before. An unbearable throb sends an ache through my lower gut.

Speaking of death, if someone doesn’t taxidermy the fuck out of me when I die, I’ll stay and haunt them for all of eternity.

I look back at her trove of undead treasures. It is weird. It’s a weird fucking thing to have. But I don’t see weird things as something to be grossed out by or uncomfortable around. I’m weird, and I like weird things. Like blood, whether it’s from the living or dead or dying. I’m not the person to judge oddities when I am the farthest thing from normal myself.

“Can you focus?” I say. “Will you please shut the fuck up about me watching you? I stared at you, then you stared at me. Let’s call it even.”

When I drop my hand to my side and don’t even blink at her response, I see the corners of her lips rising again. She’s making this fucking weird. She’s got a dresser covered in dead shit, but that isn’t what’s weirding me out. It’s the flirty sparkle in her eye.

“You don’t want to fuck with me, bones.”

“It’s more than that. You’ve killed me three different ways in the last five minutes, haven’t you?” Her eyes harden on me. “Haven’t you?”

“It’s not healthy to be this obsessed with dead things, either.”

“When I come to fix that ceiling tomorrow, I’ll give back your stupid squirrel.” Her eyes dart as she looks between me and the squirrel. “If anything happens to Van Gogh, I will fucking remove every single part of you that’s missing on him.”

“If you fuck with my shit again, you’ll suck your blood off my fingers instead of this paint.”

“Shh, go back to sleep,” I whisper. “I need to fuck you.”

“Yes, it’s just a sexy fucking dream. Now lie down and go back to sleep. Just let me fuck your little cunt.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asks as he raises his bloody fist and smiles. Red clings to his lips. I shake my head. “Does it bother you that I like dead things?” He shakes his head, and my heart flutters against my chest. This is a weird fucking conversation, and we are weird people. Why does that make me want to kiss him and taste the blood on his lips?

“You didn’t answer me,” I say as I watch her tongue work around the mixture. “Why are you giving me your mouth after what I’ve done to you?” She wipes the spit and blood from her chin before swallowing. “Because you didn’t leave. You chose to lie with me after.”

“I wanted to lick you clean that night, bones. Make you forget it all happened.”

“When I saw how he looked at you, I wanted to kill him. If we hadn’t been in a crowd of people, I probably would have. Do you understand what that’s like? To want to kill someone for doing nothing more than putting his eyes on something that belongs to you?”

“I’m the painter, and you’re my fucking muse,” I growl, squeezing her nipple between my gloved fingers. “You’re a work of art, bones.”

“But did you like doing what we did? Baiting and killing a man?” He leans in and his lips brush against mine. He smirks. “I came inside a heart for you, did I not?”

“I like it,” I pant, “but I fucking love that I have both life and death inside me. I love that you’re fucking me too, Dalton.” A moan rolls out of me.

We’re a match made in hell and even the devil is blushing at what we’ve done.

She’s skinning it. The sound of whatever is inside my own dick hitting the ground twists my stomach out of principle. That’s a sound no one should hear. She turns to look at me, the flap of flaccid skin dangling from her fingers. “I want you to wear him,” she says. The intensity in her eyes burns through me. “Uh, what?” I ask, though I’m kind of afraid to fucking hear what she means. What she said is bad enough. She stretches the skin between both hands. “I want you to fuck me with his dick. Wear his dick skin over your dick skin.” Yup, her explanation is way worse. Way worse. I shake my head. “I’m not wearing another man’s skin, bones.” My voice is the definition of firm, unlike that dick in her hands. She stands up and lowers her jeans to her knees. “Then just stuff it inside me or something. I need to feel it.”

I’m unhinged as fuck, and yet she’s disturbing me. That’s a feat. I fucked a heart for her. Fucked a corpse with her. But I have to draw the line somewhere, and it’s here. I won’t wear a man’s skin like fucking Buffalo Bill.

Fine, I’ll wear the fucking thing. I rise to my feet and step into her. Slowly, and with a disgusting level of eroticism, she slides the penis skin over my length like a macabre condom.

Even though the skin takes the shape of my penis, it sure as fuck doesn’t look like mine. And it’s not mine. I’m wearing someone else’s fucking dick.

I turn Rayna around, because at this point, I guess I’m into flesh condoms.

“What do you plan to do with that?” She looks up at me, letting her tongue swipe her lips. “We can’t exactly leave it, so I figured I could keep it.” “It’s not a lost puppy. You don’t get to take it home.” She pouts. “Serial killers keep trophies all the time.” “Yeah, and how does that turn out for them?” I snip. “But . . . but Van Gogh doesn’t have any ears.” She shoots me a playful smirk. I sigh. “Fine, you can keep the ear.”

“They just automatically assume it’s a dude? What dude takes people’s dicks?” Dalton shrugs as he puts on his jacket. “I think Dahmer did.”