Chapter 133- Wild Card Entry

His cock driving up into her, her body forced down with each thrust, her breasts bouncing in Victor’s direct line of sight, swinging forward with each impact, the wet flesh of them, the nipples dark and hard, the jiggle of them as the pace increased—

PAH. PAH. PAAH.

"AAAHH~!! AAAHH~!! AAAAHHH~!!♡♡"

Her thighs were dripping. The mixture of rain and blood and her own arousal — that shameful, uncontrollable wetness that had built through the past hour of rain and his hands and his mouth and his eyes — ran from between her thighs and fell.

Onto Victor’s upturned face.

He made a sound that was not human.

His body tried to move. His legs refused. He was fixed there, kneeling in the mud below her, below them, receiving everything that fell from the place where his fiancée was being fucked above him.

"MONSTER—" The word came out of him in a sob. "YOU FUCKING MONSTER—HOW CAN YOU—SHE’S—SHE’S MINE—"

PAH. PAH. PAH. PAAH.

"HNGH~!! HIEKK~!! AHH~!! AHH~!!♡"

Elena felt it building.

She’d never felt it build before. Had read about it, had circled the concept abstractly, had wondered in private moments what it actually felt like versus the performance of it. She knew now. It was nothing like the performance. It was like something tightening at the base of her spine and spreading outward simultaneously, like her whole body contracting around a single point—

"Wait — wait — something is — I can’t—RAVEN—"

"Go," he said.

Against her ear. The single word, the same absolute tone as now, the tone that her body had apparently decided to receive as instruction—

"AAAAANNNGHHHH~~~!!!♡♡♡"

Her back arched. Her thighs clamped around his waist. Every muscle in her body seized at once and the sound that came out of her was — not what she sounded like normally, was not the managed voice or the performed face or the correct expression, was the actual sound of Elena, raw, unmanaged, real, pouring out of her throat into the cold rain air of the Dalton family cemetery.

Fluid ran down onto Victor’s face.

He screamed.

PAH. PAH.

He didn’t stop.

He drove through her orgasm, through the clenching, through the full-body shaking of her, and she cried and came and cried again and the mud soaked into her dress below and the rain soaked into her skin above and she felt a second wave beginning before the first one had finished.

"Too much — RAVEN — it’s too MUCH — AAAHH~!!"

"NNNGHH~!!♡"

Second orgasm.

Different from the first. Deeper. Coming from further in, from the place his cock kept pressing against that she had no name for, the specific interior spot that sent electricity up her spine every time he bottomed out.

PAH. PAH. PAAH. PAH.

"AAAHH~!! AAAHH~!! PLEASE — I’M — AGAIN — AAAAHHH~!!♡♡"

Victor was sobbing.

Not quietly. The heavy, ragged sobs of a man whose entire architecture has been demolished — the entitlement and the certainty and the knowing laugh and the winking and all of it, all of it reduced to a man kneeling in graveyard mud with his face wet with things he couldn’t wipe away, watching the woman chosen for him come on another man’s cock above his head.

"I’ll kill you," he kept saying. Between the sobs. Like a prayer he’d forgotten worked. "I’ll kill you — I swear — you bastard—"

PAH. PAH.

Raven’s pace changed.

Slower. Deeper. The specific, deliberate quality of a man who has shifted from performance to intention.

He pressed his mouth to Elena’s ear.

"I’m going to fill you."

The words hit her in the chest.

"No—" She heard herself say it. The word automatic, the sensible word, the logistically correct word— "No — you can’t — Raven, please — don’t—"

His hand spread flat against her belly.

Low. Just above where his cock was driving into her.

"I’m going to fill your womb," he said. Entirely calm. The tone of something that has made a decision and is communicating it factually. "And you’re going to feel every drop."

"RAVEN—"

PAH. PAAH. PAAH.

"AAAAAHHHH~~~!!♡♡♡"

He came.

She felt it.

Felt it the way you feel water filling a container — the heat of it, the volume of it, the specific warmth of his seed against her walls in surges that kept coming, one after another, far too much, more than she’d thought was physiologically possible, filling her in waves that she felt at the base of her belly.

Her third orgasm hit during it.

"OOHHHHH~~~!!!"

Her head fell back. Her body shook. The rain fell. Victor made a sound below that had gone past words entirely.

He pulled out.

The feeling of it — the withdrawal, the sudden absence of him, her body trying to close around the space he’d occupied and finding it couldn’t quite manage it immediately — made her gasp. His seed ran from her onto Victor’s upturned face.

Victor had stopped speaking.

His eyes were open. His mouth was open. He was breathing. Something behind his eyes had gone very far away.

Elena lay in the mud.

She looked up at the grey sky. The rain hit her face. She felt — thoroughly emptied and thoroughly filled simultaneously, her thighs trembling, the grass and mud cold beneath her, the torn front of her dress open, her hair spread across the ground.

She was aware of Raven standing.

Of him looking down at her briefly. Just — looking. With that expression.

"I’m going to find you," she said, to the sky. "Later. When I can walk. I’m going to find you and I’m going to—"

"I know," he said.

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again he was standing above Victor.

Looking down at him.

Victor looked up.

His face was — the face of a man who has lost several things at once. His eyes were red. His suit was destroyed. His composure, that studied confident smirk that he’d carried like armor, was simply gone. What was left was younger than he usually looked. Less certain.

Raven turned.

A sound. From the far path. Footsteps in the wet grass.

Elena turned her head.

Veronica.

Walking toward them through the rain with her long red hair moving, the rain darkening the shoulders of her black dress as she came. No umbrella. Just walking, slow and deliberate, her hips moving with the ease of someone who has stopped managing their body for the comfort of rooms.

She stopped at the edge of the scene.

Took it in.

Elena on the ground. Victor on his knees. The scattered contents of the suitcase. The blood and the rain and everything.

Her hands moved to the clasp of her dress.

"Mother—" Victor’s voice. Barely. "What are you—"

The dress fell.

Not staged. Not careful. Just — released.

The black fabric pooling around her feet in the muddy grass, and Veronica standing in the rain of her husband’s funeral in the cemetery of her husband’s family in nothing, her body present and real and thorough — the hips that were full and genuine, the breasts that hung heavy with their own weight, the red hair plastered to her neck and shoulders by the rain.

The ropes were visible now.

They were tied around her wrists.

The same silk restraints from Victor’s suitcase, she realized — Elena had been there when the suitcase opened, had seen the restraints.

The ropes ran from her wrists up somewhere behind her, a trailing end that she held loosely herself.

Victor’s ropes.

Tied to his mother.

Victor stared.