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“If we’re already damned like you claim we are,” he says low and dark, fingers digging into my cheeks. His face is serious but the corner of his mouth curls into a bitter smile. “Then killing you is not how I want to meet my death.”
If this is what it tastes like to die, then there is a reason why I worship the god of death.
“If I am your sickness, my ruin,” he groans through clenched teeth, looming darkly over me, his disheveled hair falling over his wild eyes while the head of his cock notches against my slick entrance, “Then you are mine.”
“If I can’t have you,” he says, his jaw clenching and unclenching, “then let me mark you in all the ways I know how.”
