He sneers. "How many lies can you tell? It’s a record, even for you."
"It’s not a lie," I say through gritted teeth. "Seriously, haven’t you been listening to a word I am saying?
"No more tricks," he growls, "turn around. On your hands and knees, or I’ll make you do it."
"I’ll do it… Just... I want you to use your knife and—"
He grips my shoulder, applies enough pressure so I am forced to turn around. I push up on my hand and knees, then flinch when he taps the outside of my thigh.
"Spread your legs," he says in a hard voice, and fuck me, but my knees go weak. Moisture beads my core and my pussy clenches. I slide my legs apart, or as much as the skirt of my dress will allow.
I hear the sound of him moving, the scrape of metal on metal. I turn, glance at him over my shoulder, in time to see the glint of light off the blade. He swoops down. I flinch, then cry out when I feel him slice through the skirt of my dress. Cool air assails the heated flesh of my thighs.
"Wider," he growls. "Part your thighs."
I obey, slide my legs apart, even as my core dampens further. What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I find his rough handling of me, the thought of him taking me right here in this church… Which is, technically, a blasphemy… Why do I find that so much of a turn on?
I sense him move a second before the blade nicks my skin. I whimper, feel the draft on my pussy lips and know he’s cut through my panties.
Silence descends and I can feel the blood pumping in my ears. My heart beat ratchets up further, even as a sinking sensation crowds in on my chest. My belly twists and more moisture slides down my inner thigh.
I hear the jingle of his belt, the rasp of his zipper being lowered, and all of my nerve endings seem to catch fire. I push up my butt, knowing he’ll spot the small movement…but I don’t care. I am horny for him. I want to feel his thick, fat cock inside me. I want him to take me, to fuck me, to prove to me that he is alive. To show me that I am still worthy of him. Bloody hell. I squeeze my eyes shut. Why am I so ready to degrade myself like this? I lower my chin… Wait… Wait as he grips my hip.
I sense him move closer, the heat of him enveloping me, holding me in a space where there is only me and him.
"Stay still," he commands as his hand moves.
I glance over my shoulder in time to watch him slice through the dress at my hip. He rips the fabric apart, and cool air strikes my hip, a second before a lick of pain slices through me. I huff, crane my neck, to find his hand moving. What the hell? The breath rushes out of me. He’s carving something on my hip. Another tingle of pain crawls up my spine.
"Michael," I groan, "what are you doing?"
He doesn’t answer, continues to cut into the skin over my left hip. More pain sears through me and I bite down on my lower lip. Whatever he is doing… I deserve it. More than deserve it. At least, it shows that he heard me. At least, this means he cares about me enough that he is marking me.
He digs the knife deeper than the previous times and I stop the cry that bubbles up my throat. I taste blood and realize I have bitten down on my tongue. I swallow down the urge to sob, tilt my chin up. I can do this. I can get through this. If it means, in the end, Michael will forgive me… Can he forgive me? Will he forgive me?
He wipes the blade on my sleeve, and I turn again in time to see him slide it into the sheath.
I draw in a breath, only to cry out when fire slices through me. I dart my gaze to where he scoops up the blood from my freshly cut skin, then he teases my backhole with it.
Fear grips me. "Michael, please," I swallow, "please don’t."
He glances up at me, "Are you saying no?" His voice is cold, as remote as his gaze. His shoulders are bunched and his chest planes seem hard enough that if I touched him, I am sure I’d come away hurt... And bleeding… More than I am now.
"Well?" He raises an eyebrow, "Say the word and I’ll back off."
I swallow, then jerk my chin.
"What was that? I didn’t hear you?"
"I…" I swallow down the ball of emotion that threatens to clog my throat. "Yes," I reply and am glad my voice doesn’t waver. "Yes. I say yes."
He instantly slides his finger inside my puckered hole and a groan spills from my lips. I feel myself tense around the intrusion, and draw in a deep breath. In, out, in. I force my muscles to relax as he moves his finger in and out of me. He adds another finger and I stiffen. It’s already too much, too soon. Shit, how am I going to take all of him inside. He pulls out of me completely, then slides both fingers back in.
"Open for me," he commands and the sound off his voice shivers over my skin. My pussy clenches and warmth sears my skin. He brings the fingers of his other hand to my pussy, then slips them inside my soaking channel. He scoops up the moisture, drags it up to my backhole, smears it around the entrance. He adds a third finger, and I throw my head back.
"Omigod, omigod," I chant as he thrusts the three fingers in and out of me. In and out. He pulls them out, then a blunt something nudges at my back entrance. "No, not yet, please, Michael," I burst out, and he pauses.
"Do you want me to stop?" His voice is remote, so standoffish, almost bored.