Smut Book Quotes

I moaned then, tilting my head back to give him better access. His hands clamped on my waist, then moved—one going to cup my rear, the other sliding between us. This—this moment, when it was him and me and nothing between our bodies … His tongue scraped the roof of my mouth as he dragged a finger down the center of me, and I gasped, my back arching. “Feyre,” he said against my lips, my name like a prayer more devout than any Ianthe had offered up to the Cauldron on that dark solstice morning. His tongue swept my mouth again, in time to the finger that he slipped inside of me. My hips undulated, demanding more, craving the fullness of him, and his growl reverberated in my chest as he added another finger. I moved on him. Lightning lashed through my veins, and my focus narrowed to his fingers, his mouth, his body on mine. His palm pushed against the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and I groaned his name as I shattered

Besides....... who wants a boy? The only boys in our books are the little baby ones the man hero puts inside the heroine.

1984 was the most boring book ever. But now I understand why people read smut

Please,” I gasped out. He just brushed his lips against my jaw, my neck, my mouth. “Tamlin,” I begged. He palmed my breast, his thumb flicking over my nipple. I cried out, and he buried himself in me with a mighty stroke. For a moment, I was nothing, no one. Then we were fused, two hearts beating as one, and I promised myself it always would be that way as he pulled out a few inches, the muscles of his back flexing beneath my hands, and then slammed back into me. Again and again. I broke and broke against him as he moved, as he murmured my name and told me he loved me. And when that lightning once more filled my veins, my head, when I gasped out his name, his own release found him. I gripped him through each shuddering wave, savoring the weight of him, the feel of his skin, his strength. For a while, only the rasp of our breathing filled the room. I frowned as he withdrew at last—but he didn’t go far. He stretched out on his side, head propped on a fist, and traced idle circles on my stomach, along my breasts.

I couldn't hear anything or anyone, there was only the sound of our sex and the smell of books.

there’s nothing wrong with a man who enjoys a good romance book. My dad always said the best way to learn what a woman wants is to pick up some of the smut they love to read so much. Written by a woman, it might as well be a road map to instant pleasure.

Trellis wants his salutary book to be read by all. He realizes that purely a moralizing tract would not reach the public. Therefore he is putting plenty of smut into his book.

I want to be his love slave. An image of me in a black corset wearing a collar with a leash attached to it pops into my head. Maybe stupid Lydia was right to cut the smut from the book club for a while.

The book was not new. Dates were stamped on the front endpaper, in and out dates. A rent book. A lending library of elaborate smut. I rewrapped the book and locked it up behind the seat. A racket like that, out in the open on the boulevard, seemed to mean plenty of protection. I sat there and poisoned myself with cigarette smoke and listened to the rain and thought about it.

You can’t blackball people out of a book club.” “Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.

I've never understood people who return books after they've obviously read them. "Oh no, that dog-eared page was there when I bought it." Like hell it was. How about I punch you in the bloody face and tell you that bruise was there before and then we'll call it even.

I wanted a good smut book where the female lead was worshipped like a queen and dicked down by multiple men repeatedly. All day. Every day. Constant dicking.

but I never turn down the opportunity to take off my bra, throw on my grubbiest sweats, and curl up on my couch with a good smut book or four hours straight of Netflix.

snuggling in bed at our sorority house, reading smut books, and avoiding social gatherings”.

Even if I only wrote erotica, I wouldn’t care what you have to say. I make people happy! Blake and I provide readers with fun and entertainment and an escape from their lives, which is a damn good thing because life is hard and really sucks sometimes. Life isn’t a fairy-tale and not everyone in gets a happily-ever-after, but in our book world they do.

And when he beheld their dark sails, smutted by the burning tar that had blinded their enemy, he believed them blackened in mourning for the young man, and he threw himself down, and so perished. For no man lives long when his dreams are dead.

Amy, amante, amour, he whispered, as if the words themselves were smuts of ash rising and falling, as though the candle were the story of his life and she the flame. He lay down in his haphazard cot. After a time he found and opened a book he had been reading that he had expected to end well, a romance which he wanted to end well, with the hero and heroine finding love, with peace and joy and redemption and understanding. Love is two bodies with one soul, he read, and turned the page. But there was nothing—the final pages had been ripped away and used as toilet paper or smoked, and there was no hope or joy or understanding. There was no last page. The book of his life just broke off. There was only the mud below him and the filthy sky above. There was to be no peace and no hope. And Dorrigo Evans understood that the love story would go on forever and ever, world without end. He would live in hell, because love is that also.

I’m going to take this perfect candy ass and you’re going to take each and every painful slam of my cock as I force myself balls deep inside. And you’re going to be a good lass and scream out for more.

Should I put it in my mouth?” “If you’re feeling brave enough.” “How much of it?” “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that before. My answer to that question will always be the more the fucking better, Sweetheart.

I want to fuck you like my personal whore. Then I want to pet you like a puppy and hold you warm against my chest. Treat you so soft and sweet, like a princess. You make me crazy, little brute. You make me feral and wild and insane. And I thought I already was all of those things. But it was nothing compared to when I met you.

Now that you’re all stretched and ready…” he croons. “I’m going to fuck you and make true on my promise. You’re not going to be able to walk by the time I’m done with you.

My vagina is a treacherous bitch. She can’t be trusted.

I want to punish you, honey. Clearly count each time. If you make it to ten, you'll be rewarded; if you ask me to stop, you'll apologize on your knees.

They kissed greedily like hungry animals given a piece of meat.

She’s probably shocked to see me at a party, instead of my typical “snuggling in bed at our sorority house, reading smut books, and avoiding social gatherings”.

I’ve been reading too many smut books lately, and I clearly haven’t gotten out enough.

She raises her brow and squints at me. “You want to buy me smut books?” “Yes.” “Paperback or hardcover?” “Anything you fucking want.

In my early teens, I heard about Naked Lunch and its mutating typewriters and talking cockroaches. While I would hardly classify its dystopic vision as erotica now, at the time, Naked Lunch was my first foray into consuming smut. It was because of Burroughs that I knew about the particular musk that blooms when a rectum is penetrated, and that death-by-hanging produces spontaneous trouser tents. The first Burroughs I read was Naked Lunch, but I buried myself in a few of his stories, and thus the arc of my recollection is just as non-linear as his narrative.

I’m going to put my cock inside you now, little brute. I’ll let you adjust to it first, but after that, I’m going to fuck the absolute shit out of you like you’re my personal little harlot.

I can make you feel so, so good, sweetheart. Just give in to your desires. I know your sweet little cunt is throbbing so hard right now, it’s almost like it’s calling out for me like a siren’s song.

Keep your eyes on me. Let me look at you while I ruin you.

I feel like a helpless deer running away from a terrible fate. I’m Bambi’s fucking mother, and he is the hunter ready to shoot me just so he can eat me. Devour me.

My mind is a mess. I’m sucking off a homicidal lunatic in the middle of the fucking forest.

You’re so fucking wet. Goddamnit, sweetheart. Look at you, all exposed and ready for me, with no way to escape.

I’m going to fuck you so brutally, I’ll turn you inside out, Lucille. And don’t think I have forgotten about your little asshole. I’m going to destroy that, too.

Look at me, sweetheart,” he growls, every muscle in his arms flexing. “Look at me as my blood drips all over you. Watch me paint every inch of your skin with my life’s essence.

There are many chaotic paths to success in the world of writing.

I still read fairytales... they are just a little dirtier now.

You should have known better than to test me, baby girl. This is what bad girls get for being dirty little sluts. A hard dick lodged deep in their ass with no lube.

Okay, give it to me then, but if it contains any smut, I swear I’ll shoot you.

It’s so easy, though, having you tied and ready like this. Like my own personal fucktoy.” Her mouth opens slightly in a gasp and I see the way the muscles in her thighs tighten. “You like that, huh?” I hum, brushing the skin with my hand close to her pussy, which is dripping with my cum. “You like it when I tell you that you’re for me to take―for me to use? Dirty lass.

I want to feel you squeeze around my fingers. I want to taste you on my fucking tongue. And fuck, sweetheart… I want to be inside you. I want to pound into you until you’re a sobbing little mess.

That was fucking incredible, Lucy. I would’ve died a happy man if you’d sat on me a little longer with those thick thighs of yours squeezing my face. With your pussy soaking my nose and my mouth.

I’m going to tear this sweet little cunt apart. I’m going to use it over and over again for my own needs,” he growls. “But I’m also going to make it feel good. Make it come on my tongue and my cock. Make it feel so good that you’ll never spend another day without begging for it. It’s what I’ve been dreaming of ever since I saw your picture in your book. My beautiful lass, put on this world just for me.

I read the darkest of the dark. You know, the kind where her alpha hole lover sends her the enemy’s hand in a parcel with half the book smothered in dirty kinky smut. Maybe I’m getting this whole romance thing wrong.

As we stood there, the world around us faded into insignificance, as if it were melting away. It was just the two of us, locked in an embrace, with the distant barks of sea lions below serving as our only witnesses. The taste of him on my tongue was like a potent elixir, intoxicating me and anchoring me to the present moment. His breath, warm and gentle, caressed my skin, and I could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat reverberating against my chest.

It’s like diving into a goddamn swimming pool, sweetheart. That’s how wet you are down here. Your mind can fight me all it wants, but your cunt is desperate for my touch,” I taunt, smugness dripping off me like beads of sweat.

Now, I know the books she reads are the smut ones, and when I watch her make notes in the margins, highlight passages, and tab the pages, I make a mental note to read every last annotation in every book she has so I know all her desires.

I told you,” he growled softly, his voice curling with dark arrogance. “There’s no God here… just me. Worship me, darling. Please…” There was something almost wounded in the way he said it, something vulnerable buried beneath his commanding tone, and it made my chest ache with longing. “Desmond…” I breathed out, his name slipping past my lips like a prayer. “Desmond… Desmond…

You'll be staying in your old room.' As if she had any sort of claim on this place. On anywhere at all. He went on, 'My room's a level above that.' 'Why would I need to know that?' The words snapped out of her. He began walking toward the glass doors that led into the mountain's interior. 'In case you have a bad dream and need someone to read you a story,' he drawled, a half smile dancing on his face. 'Maybe one of those smutty books you like so much.

We did not go about this bride thing right. I do not think women are still used to being stolen as they once were.” “Some adjustment is to be expected.” “It is more than that. She keeps asking for things that I do not have—her Earth clothes and something called a cheeseburger, which I recall from the mini shows as being a giant food that women enjoy eating half naked very slowly.” Kyran thought of Eve’s beautiful legs. He would very much enjoy getting her a cheeseburger

I could feel heat pooling between my legs fast and intense. My thighs pressed together, uselessly. Shame surged up my spine, but there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide from what I was feeling. And then I realized my mouth was open. He noticed. A gloved hand reached out slowly, not to harm, but to hush. He touched my chin with surprising gentleness and placed one finger against my lips. “What did you see?” he whispered, his voice low, husky, dangerous and magnetic. “An angel… or something else?

Then you think there is no God?" "No, I think there quite probably is one." "Then why? …" Mustapha Mond checked him. "But he manifests himself in different ways to different men. In premodern times he manifested himself as the being that's described in these books. Now …" "How does he manifest himself now?" asked the Savage. "Well, he manifests himself as an absence; as though he weren't there at all." "That's your fault." "Call it the fault of civilization. God isn't compatible with machinery and scientific medicine and universal happiness. You must make your choice. Our civilization has chosen machinery and medicine and happiness. That's why I have to keep these books locked up in the safe. They're smut. People would be shocked it …" The Savage interrupted him. "But isn't it natural to feel there's a God?" "You might as well ask if it's natural to do up one's trousers with zippers," said the Controller sarcastically. "You remind me of another of those old fellows called Bradley. He defined philosophy as the finding of bad reason for what one believes by instinct. As if one believed anything by instinct! One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them. Finding bad reasons for what one believes for other bad reasons–that's philosophy. People believe in God because they've been conditioned to. "But all the same," insisted the Savage, "it is natural to believe in God when you're alone–quite alone, in the night, thinking about death …" "But people never are alone now," said Mustapha Mond. "We make them hate solitude; and we arrange their lives so that it's almost impossible for them ever to have it.

Moving my hand from his throat to his hair, I grasp the dark brown strands with an unrelenting tug and move my clit over his mouth, using his face as my seat. I start riding him, grinding my pussy over his lips. He sticks out his tongue for me to use and use it, I do. It feels almost barbaric. I’m fucking his face. But it’s invigorating, and it’s not something he hasn’t done to me before. “Making me say ‘please’,” I mutter, growling. “Making me beg for it. You bloody man. I’ll make you beg for air. I’ll make you beg me to let you breathe. How about that, fucker.

We cut together, you take the blood, with your tongue." He captures my hand, placing the blade gently between my fingers. With deft precision, he grips both my hand s and the shimmering steel and cuts into his neck. The skin breaks, exposing the underlying tissues. Almost instantly, blood starts seeping from the injury site, escaping, gradually forming a glossy sheen over the cut. He spins me swiftly, my breasts colliding with his chest. Drawing me near, he envelops me in his embrace. I study the wound, a silent storm brewing in me. Instinctively, my lips find his neck, pressing softly against the fragile skin. My tongue flicks out, gathering his blood like children gathering the Halloween candy from each house. His taste is metallic, slightly salty, and somewhat bitter. I pull my lips from his neck, and he catches my chin, bringing his mouth to mine.

Dear Kitty, Another birthday has gone by, so now I’m fifteen. I received quite a lot of presents. All five parts of Sprenger’s History of Art, a set of underwear, a handkerchief, two bottles of yoghurt, a pot of jam, a spiced gingerbread cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the Van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Elli and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kraler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck. There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like so many men, not to know what fear is—makes me envious! It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret redoubt how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle (?) English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps it would put some sense into their woolly brains. I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer. Yours, Anne

Do you like to read?' Emerie's mouth curled upward. 'I live alone, up in the mountains. I have nothing to do with my spare time except work in my garden and read whatever books I order through the mail service. And in the winter, I don't even have the distraction of my gardening. So, yes, I like to read. I cannot survive without reading.' Nesta grunted her agreement. 'What manner of books?' Gwyn asked. 'Romantics,' Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta started. Emerie's eyes lit. 'You too? Which ones?' Nesta rattled off her top five, and Emerie grinned, so broadly it was like seeing another person. 'Have you read Sellyn Drake's novels?' Nesta shook her head. Emerie gasped, so dramatically that Cassian muttered something about sparing him from smut-obsessed females before heading further into the ring. 'You must read her books. You must. I'll bring the first one tomorrow. You'll stay up all night reading it, I swear.' 'Smut?' Gwyn asked, catching Cassian's muttered words. There was enough hesitation in her voice to make Nesta draw up straight. Nesta glanced at Emerie, realising the female didn't know about Gwyn- her history, or why the priestesses lived in the library. But Emerie asked. 'What do you read?' 'Adventure, sometimes mysteries. But mostly I read whatever Merrill, the priestess I work with, has written that day. Not as exciting as romance, not by a long shot. Emerie said casually. 'I can bring one of Drake's brooks for you, too- one of her milder ones. An introduction to the wonders of romance.' Emerie winked at Nesta. Nesta waited for Gwyn to refuse, but the priestess smiled. 'I'd like that.

Gabriel has been urging her to take a stronger hand in the management of the Clare lands—just as Mr. Ravenel advised a minute ago.” “But she doesn’t want to?” Pandora asked sympathetically. “Because farming is so boring?” West gave her a sardonic look. “How do you know if it’s boring? You’ve never done it.” “I can tell by the books you read.” Turning to Kingston, Pandora explained, “They’re all about things like scientific butter making, or pig keeping, or smut. Now, who could possibly find smut interesting?” “Not that kind of smut,” West said hastily, as he saw the duke’s brows lift. “You’re referring to the multicellular fungi that afflicts grain crops, of course,” Kingston said blandly. “There are all different kinds of smut,” Pandora said, warming to the subject. “Smut balls, loose smut, stinking smut—” “Pandora,” West interrupted in an undertone, “for the love of mercy, stop saying that word in public.” “Is it unladylike?” She heaved a sigh. “It must be. All the interesting words are.” With a rueful smile, West returned his attention to the duke. “We were talking about Lady Clare’s lack of interest in estate farming.

Romance is always better in books, especially the smut.

I never turn down the opportunity to take off my bra, throw on my grubbiest sweats, and curl up on my couch with a good smut book or four hours straight of Netflix.

So, take that insufferable ego and shove it somewhere, anywhere, I don’t care! Now let me fix this!' -Ivy

It’s clear that you feel like you have to hide your smut books from me. You don’t have to be ashamed. If you want to read about throbbing cocks, quivering thighs, and aliens banging each other, do it, Kai. This is a judgment-free zone.

Power beyond words lurked in the beast’s gaze, a magnetic force that ensnared my vision. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the creature. Its serpentine tongue crept out, moist and glistening. Circling and circling and circling. I rolled my hips in tune, and an ungloved thumb caressed the sensitive nub. My mouth stretched into a silent scream, covered by a writhing tentacle.

My curiosity aroused, I flipped to another page. 蛸と海女: Tako to Ama, trans. ‘The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife.’ Head thrown back, eyes closed, a nude woman lay sprawled ashore. Her brows creased in anguish and ecstasy. As she was pleasured by a large octopus. No, octopi. I trailed a finger along the suctioned underside of the creature’s appendage to her breast where a smaller octopus latched onto. The painting might’ve been unmoving, but it held an animated quality. The woman writhing on the shore; the fluid movements of the sea creatures as the trio derived mutual pleasure from their strange encounter. Their visceral desire seeped through the page, and I was but a voyeur.

Ace, Chapter 2, Erotomaniac. That’s lust. She wants me to suckle those perky tits. I just fucking know it.

How are they all taller than six feet? I’ve been reading too many smut books lately, and I clearly haven’t gotten out enough.

I’m going to take off, too. I have a date with a riveting book of smut and my vibr—” She wheezes a little, catching herself. “Vibrant imagination.

I want to read one of the books they talk about on TikTok. You know, the ones that are basically porn?” Zane smirks as he types at his phone. “Read smut. Got it. What else?

I am going to fuck you in your marital bed,” he says sinisterly as he slowly slides off his underwear. “We are going to defile every single thing that your husband owned. Desecrate it until no trace of him remains. How does that sound?” I let out a deep breath and nod. “That sounds… healing. I want that.

Fucking hell, Lucille. This pussy was fucking made for me.

Relax for me, mo leannan. You can take it. You’re already taking it,” he coaxes on a ragged breath. “Fucking hell, what a sight―my cock disappearing inside that tight ass.

Blaze: I’ve never trusted any motherfucker just because they might look fucking innocent. Especially women. Women are nothing but fucking trouble.

I'd be the first. The last.

As if anyone could hold a candle to Jack. It would be like trying to keep one lit in the middle of a tornado

And who knew so many people love book smut, just like me?

I wanted a good smut book where the female lead was worshipped like a queen and dicked down by multiple men repeatedly. All day. Every day. Constant dicking. Also, the lead men needed to be super sweet and supportive.

In her book she so desperately speaks about wanting a passionate love. Someone who sees the real her. A man who will love her unconditionally. Well, at least Daisy Scott does. But I know she’s talking about herself. You poor little wife. You have no idea what you have asked of me. I will make her feel all those things. And more. I will push her boundaries and help her reach into the darkest parts of herself. I will make her feel alive.

Fuck, you’re an exquisite little thing,” he groans in my ear. “Such a bonnie lass.

Don’t you dare muffle those sounds, lass. They are meant for my ears, and I’ll be damned if I let you deprive me of hearing them.” His rough hand gathers my wrists together before he forces them against the wall above my head. “What’s even better than hearing them, though… is swallowing them.

Ah,” he murmurs. “I see how it is. You don’t want to admit that you have an aching need between your thighs. You don’t want to give in to the things you crave. Is that because you want me to force your pretty dress up and find out for myself what your body is aching for?

Well, sweetheart. If I were a gentleman, I would’ve asked you out on a date, taken you on numerous fancy dinners, and treated you real nice and sweet. But I’ll be honest with you straight from the get-go. I am not a gentleman. In fact, I am the furthest thing from a gentleman. I’m a degenerate―a criminal. And I’ll show you exactly what criminals do to pretty little things like you.

I am going to fuck this soaked little cunt with my fingers now. And I won’t stop until I’ve abused the poor thing so bad, your cum will run down your thighs. And then I’m going to lick it up until you’ve satiated my thirst. And I. Am. Thirsty.

You have the prettiest little pussy I have ever seen.” My hips involuntarily thrust upward at that and he chuckles tauntingly. “Widen those legs for me.

That’s it,” he grunts against me, the sound muffled. “Take what you want from me. Take your pleasure from my tongue, mo chreach bheag.

Open your fly,” I order, still pressing the gun underneath his chin. “I want to see you.” He does as he’s told, pushing down his trousers and underwear until his giant cock springs free. It’s unhealthy. That thing is a freak of nature. There is no way I’m going to survive having it inside me. But God… do I want to try.

I lick my lips as I stare at it and Dubh smiles. “Does it make you salivate, Lucy? Do you want it in your mouth?” I glare at him for just a moment before I slap him hard on the cheek again. “Quiet. And put your hands behind your back.” “Holy. Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and he complies. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, and I think it’s to wallow in the sting.

Do you like pain, too?” I ask, tilting my head. He’s still quiet and I smile. “You can answer.” “Only when it’s you who inflicts it,” he says. He very slowly thrusts his pelvis in the air, and I’m not sure if he even realizes he’s doing it.

I slap him again and keep the gun pointed at his face with my other hand. “How does it feel, not being in control? Not being able to touch me? Only being able to look,” I taunt. “Do you want to come?” He nods, his eyes never leaving mine as he stares up at me. It’s empowering. I am the one in control. I am the one who’s calling the shots. This time, he will be the one begging for mercy. “Not good enough. Give me a verbal answer.” I tap the barrel of the gun against his nose tauntingly. “Yes,” he growls. “Have you no manners, Dubh? What do civilized people say when they want something?

He can’t touch me. Not this time. “Come for me, Dubh. Show me what you have to offer me.” “Fuck, Lucy,” he groans as he keeps thrusting in the air. And finally, spurts of pearly white cum shoot out of the tip, onto the floor. “Goddamn you,” he curses as he spills more onto the ground.

Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks. “Am I too rough?” I huff out an amused breath. “No.” He slowly pulls his cock out and turns me around before setting me down with my ass on the desk. Swallowing, I whisper, “You are just an overwhelming man, Dubh Burton. I never knew sex could feel this good. I’m not crying because I’m sad.” My voice skips. “I’m not crying because you’re hurting me. I’m crying because I’m… happy.

I suppose there’s no use in trying to fight against it anymore. My vagina likes you too much.

Goddamn, mo leannan. You taste like rage and desire, and it’s fucking intoxicating,

Hold onto your ankles. Keep yourself in place.” She opens her mouth to protest, but I shut that down right away. “Do I need to remind you that you have two very sharp knives right beside your head? Want to feel one against your throat instead?

You think this is wrong. That you’re not allowed to like this,” I say as I lean back. “But you don’t have to hide your desires from me, Lucille. I’ll show you every filthy thing that is known to mankind, and I’ll watch your cunt dripping as it weeps for more. And then I’ll do it again and again. Until you push all those thoughts aside and accept your desires. What was it that Daisy Scott said?” I slip one finger inside of her pussy. “She wonders what it would feel like to experience passion. To meet someone who sees her. Who sees the real her. Someone who would never want to change her or try to take away her darkness,” I quote from her novel. “Don’t hide from me, mo chreach bheag.

Oh, God…” she whimpers, gasping for air as I add another finger inside and place my lips over her clit. “Not God, sweetheart. It’s my name I want to hear you scream. Your moans are mine. Your pleasure is mine. This cunt―” I curl my fingers inside her, and she yelps. “Is fucking mine.

I stick out my tongue and lick a long path over her throat before I reach her mouth. “You’re a stubborn little thing. Do you realize that only makes me crave you more?” I plant a light kiss on her mouth. “I can’t wait to break you, Lucille.” She spits into my face, a deadly storm in her eyes as she stares at me, her saliva landing right above my lip. I run my tongue over it to scoop it up, then swallow it and grin. “What was your endgame with that, sweetheart?

No. I would rather risk getting devoured―as Dubh threatens in his note―by a homicidal stalker who thinks he’s in love with me than get back into that miserable sham of a marriage.

I want you to run and hide. And when I find you, I’m going to shove my cock into your pretty mouth and make you swallow every last goddamn drop of my cum.

Run, mo chreach. I’ll give you ten seconds.

He grabs the back of my neck and forces me down onto my knees. I yelp when he grabs hold of my hair and brings my head up to look at him. “I’ve made you feel good multiple times now. I’ve made you come and I’ve treated you real nice.” Nice? Fucking nice? “Now it’s time to return the favor.” “If you even dare to stick your disgusting prick inside of my mouth, I swear I will bite it off!” I grit out between clenched teeth. “Sure, you could try that. Then I will just kill your husband myself.