The Real Mrs. Price Read Free

ahead at nothing, numb and trembling. His beautiful Lucy was a shell of the woman he’d married. But she should’ve minded her own fucking business.
    He had two choices. He could stay and be arrested, or he could get as far away from here and this life as he could, as quickly as he could, and hope that he would never be found. On his way out the back door, he stopped and looked back at her one last time. Ed thought that maybe he should tell her that he would always love her. But saying something like that would just be silly.

 
    Bone Talk
    â€œB E MINDFUL OF ME. And watch. Wait. Come,” he said.
    Was she naked? Of course. Of course she was. Bare outside and in. Vulnerable. And fragile, anticipating and needing. Him.
    A light shone over her, but the space around her was dark. It was as if she were on display, but only for him. Marlowe raised her knees to her chest and let them fall open from her thighs. Was she afraid? Yes. But she wanted him more than she feared him. Inside. He was close. She didn’t have to see him to know it. Marlowe scented him, she felt his presence in that room, the air warming as he drew nearer.
    â€œNo rules. Only lust. And come. And us.”
    His hand emerged from the darkness, black as tar, planting on the bed between her legs, leaving a print. Marlowe sucked in her breath and held it. Her heart raced, chasing fear and desire. Her nipples hardened at the thought of the warm caress of his lips.
    He could hurt her. Kill. It’s what he did. He could break her. Make her beg. Want.
    The dark space at the foot of her bed transformed into him, his frame. Broad. Long. Without an end or beginning. He had no face. And yet, she loved him. Her body convulsed in anticipation of him. He pushed his fingers between the lips of her pussy, through the folds of her vagina, and fucked her. Slowly. Deeply. Rivers flowed from her, soaking the sheets. Filling the cup of his palm. Marlowe cried out in ecstasy and agony. It was so good that it hurt. And her desire for him became maddening.
    He was a murderer from the beginning and abode not in the truth … A biblical testament that erupted from her memories.
    He was killing her in his own sick way. Tormenting her. Torturing her with his fingers. Teasing.
    â€œCome on!” she growled in frustration at him as he brought her to orgasm with his touch. Marlowe’s body rocked. She cried out, and she reached for him, but her hand passed through him. He wasn’t real. But he was.
    He pulled his fingers from her and raised them to the place where his mouth would be. They disappeared into him, and he moaned.
    â€œMy sweet love,” he whispered.
    Waves of orgasms rippled through her body long after he’d removed his fingers. And then he mounted her. Marlowe cried out in anticipation and terror. The warm and thick tip of his dick pressed against her opening. He balanced himself on his elbows, braced on either side of her. His broad and powerful chest pressed down on her until she could hardly breathe. He pushed inside her. Pulled out of her. Pushed deeper. Pulled out again. He did this over and over again, until the full length of him, which felt endless, was inside her.
    â€œScream, Marlowe. Scream for me.”
    She opened her mouth, but no scream came. He pummeled her, fucked her, licked and kissed her. He covered her with all of him, until the light above her dimmed. There was no name for what he was doing to her. Marlowe lay slathered in him, filled with him, consumed by him, in glorious throes of passion so fantastic that she dreamed they would never fade. She belonged to him, mind, body, and soul.
    â€œYessssss,” he hissed, bucking slow and hard and deep at his own orgasmic waves. “I claim you. And you claim me, too. Yessssss.”
    She was his. He was hers. And the bond was unbreakable. Sealed.
    *   *   *
    Marlowe had been sleeping restlessly when the phone rang next to her bed.