Her Beautiful Pain, [NC17], Crowley/Jo
Title: Her Beautiful Pain
Author: Muses Wander
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Crowley/Jo
Disclaimer: I own neither Jo nor Crowley, nor any storyline with them. But I'm kind of fascinated by Crowley. I don't have any part in SPN and am merely a fan. :) Please do not sue; I'm unemployed.
Note: This ignores the "closure" we get from Jo's ghost in Season 7. In fact, completely ignore that episode ever happened. Also, this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.
Summary: Crowley finds Jo in Hell.
He understood the game. Yes, he understood quite well.
There were rules, there were weapons, there were secrets. There were times to show all the cards, and times to hold them close. There were times you rushed into a fight and times you took your time and made sure your weapon was ready. And times that you broke every damned rule. Times when you did whatever it took to destroy the damned Winchesters. But there was a definite game. And he understood that.
Crowley walked along the line of souls then slipped through the door. He smirked as he passed the man desperately clinging to the slip of paper with the number one neatly typed, he paused and watched as it twisted into number four million-something-or-a-rather and the man’s soul sighed. He felt the tingle of brilliant annoyance from the man as he walked passed. It was good being king, he thought.
Through the door was another room. This one was an elevator filled with fewer souls who listened to the sweet sounds of the Top 40 from 1996 on eternal repeat. Honestly, he thought, when inspiration struck it had hit with gold with that one. There was only so much *Nsync a soul could handle before it begged for reprieve, or worse. Then there was another room, and another room, and another. But he wasn't interested in them.
He was interested in Her.
Crowley descended; he walked through the layers of hell until he reached her level. He passed as demons slayed souls and as souls slid off their racks to begin their own turns at torture. Another time he would be proud; the production line was moving steadily and the demons were behaving. But today he had a mission.
She was here. And she had been here just long enough.
They say that in hell no one can hear you scream. But he could. He could pinpoint each voice, each desperate cry. He reveled in the screams and the pleas. Sometimes he sat in his office and lifted a glass of dark wine to them, he drank to the sound of their beautiful pain.
He reached the demon and watched it pick up another knife, silver with messily written script scrawled along the hilt. Pain, it proclaimed, and torment. The demon whispered something into Her ear and she shook her head, vehemently. Through the leather gag he could hear her beg and for any other soul he would have raised the heat. Instead he stepped forward and listened to the demon detail what he would do to her, how he would strip away her skin and then her soul.
Again.
Crowley rolled his eyes. He made a mental note to set up a seminar on imagery and speech. He shook his head; so unimaginative, he wanted to say. So bland.
Instead he pulled the demon aside, nodded to Her, then spoke in hushed tones to the demon. Crowley looked back at her. Even in Hell she was beautiful. Her hair clung wet against the sides of her face, her eyes pleaded release, sweat slid down her skin in long lines. He looked back at the demon, black eyed and gruesome. It dripped with sadism and pain, it snickered then stopped and realized a mistake. The mistake.
Crowley smiled; he was forgiving was he not? He understood mistakes, he understood that Hell was confusing. So many souls, so many evils. She was just another one who made a deal, right? Right?
Of course.
The demon thanked him, bowed onto both knees and laid kisses on Crowley’s feet.
Then, it fell devoid of existence at Crowley’s feet.
He barely spared a glance before walking to her. "The pity of hell,” he whispered into her ear as he untied the gag, “is that the bodies can’t go any lower. When demons die here they just become part of the décor.” He waved a hand and the shackles holding Jo released. She whimpered and folded into herself. In a fetal position, she cried then she clung to his hand when he laid it beside her. “There, there,” he whispered. He ran a finger along her jaw and smiled, then waved his other hand and they were away.
Jo stood on legs that shook too hard then moved fully into his embrace and closer to his warmth, into his stillness. With hair damp over her eyes, she looked around them. The room was cool and colored in deep reds with weaving iron vines holding candles that bathed the room in soft orange light. There was an open window in the corner and a cool breeze tickled her nose and chilled her skin.
“Why?” she croaked. Crowley raised his other hand so that her face was cupped in both of his, then lightly kissed her forehead.
“Because,” he whispered, “you are special.” He held a hand up and backed away, when he stepped to the side she saw a carafe of wine waiting. He poured two glasses and the sweet scent of cherries, blackberries, orange, and musk filled the room. He handed her a glass with a sad smile. “The best we have to offer,” he apologized.
She took the glass, a sip, then another. “Thank,” she paused and looked back to him, “Thank you.”
“Jo,” Crowley smiled, “Joanna Beth.” He took her hand in his and kissed along her knuckles, “You were never meant for The Pit.”
Jo pulled her hand away and took a step back. A trick, she thought, this was another trick. The King of Hell, she reminded herself.
“No,” he quickly countered with a smile, with his hands up in surrender, “I promise. No trick. No ruse. A mistake, my dear. And one, I’m afraid, that I don’t have the power to fix. I can only offer this.” He spread his hands and showed a feast of meats, fruits, and breads now on the table.
And so began the descent. With each bite of succulent fruit, each cut of steaming meat, she fell. With each slide of silk against her flesh, each taste of wine on her tongue, he seduced.
The King of Hell was a patient soul. He was wise, he was prepared, he understood the perfection of time. He would leave her, sometimes longer than necessary. He would question her, then ask forgiveness at his ignorance and stupidity. It pained her to think back to her last days and to think of those she left. To think of them. He begged her forgiveness.
He gave her the brightest sun with the bluest skies, he silenced the cries from the below as they spoke in hushed whispers. And he did not press. He gave her dresses made from the softest silk, and thought to the women working the caves to produce the threads. He presented her with soothing ointments and smiled when she smoothed it on her skin; thought of the tears that made the lotion so soft. He gave her absolute darkness and complete softness as she slept, and watched from shadow as her whimpers ceased and her face no longer contorted in pain. He had time.
He left her and made her swear a promise, just one. “Don’t leave the room until I’m back.” Jo looked at him and smirked and with her hand still in his, the smirk fell.
“Where would I go?” she asked with a drop of her shoulder.
He cupped her hand and raised it to his lips, “I don’t want you lost, pet. I don’t want the demons to confuse you with the others. Again.”
She shuddered and agreed. And watched as he left.
He had plans and, as he gathered the freshly baked muffins from the bakery, he had plans. Richard Roman, the dick, happened to be ruining his plans and needed to be removed from the situation. Crowley materialized in Roman’s car and offered a truce. He smiled when Dick countered and insulted him, he raised his hands and agreed that demons were lesser than dirt. He left the muffins.
He went to the demons, he stocked up on humans and souls, he went to the Winchesters. Then felt a dance over his skin as they talked. They didn’t know, they weren’t thinking of her. They were thinking about him, they were worried about Leviathan. She wasn’t even a stray thought.
Good.
He went back to Her.
Jo was bored and had no problem saying so the minute he opened the door. She wore a frown on her face, and a black dress on her body; she walked impatiently around her prison. She wanted to go somewhere, do something. She wanted to shoot something. She wanted to see her mother.
Crowley nodded and kept his head bent, he begged her forgiveness and blamed the demons running amuck and the Leviathan who were causing problems. He apologized that he didn’t have the power to bring her from Hell. He was bound, he apologized. He raised her hand and kissed it.
When she smiled, he smiled. “I,” Jo paused and tightened her grip on his hand, “I missed you.”
“Good,” Crowley grinned and quickly kissed her hand again, “because, darling, I missed you every minute.” He pulled her close, “You smell of hope,” he sniffed along her neck, “and taste,” he kissed where her pulse had once beat steadily, “of redemption.”
Jo laughed with a shake of her head and pushed him again. Then she pushed him back, “And Hell?” She stepped closer.
Crowley felt a second thrill race along his spine, but kept the simple smile on his face, “And Hell?”
“They came for Him,” she whispered as she cupped his face. She ducked her head under his chin, “The angels, they came for Dean. Is he so much better than me?”
Crowley stroked a hand along her back, wrapped his other around her waist. He grinned as he kissed the side of her head, then turned back to her and kissed her forehead. “Perhaps I’ve hidden you away from them, my pet.”
“They found him,” she countered with a shake of her head, the hand at his shoulder tightened. His tightened at her waist. “They found him in The Pit. Couldn’t they find me?” She looked up at him, then cupped his face and chastely kissed his lips. “You found me.”
He looked at her, squeezed her hands, “I will always find you.”
Jo looked down at their hands. And for a moment her eyes flashed, “I know.” She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him; her lips ready as she pulled at his shirt. “I know.”
She bit his lip, licked into his mouth and her arms wrapped around his neck. He pulled her close, pulled his shirt off and pulled at the pathetic straps of her dress. He hissed when she scratched her nails down his chest.
“Only if you are sure,” he whispered. He backed her towards the soft bed.
“Touch me,” she pleaded. She pushed her straps down further and pressed her breasts against his chest. “Please.”
Crowley grinned, snapped, and they were on the bed. Her dress was folded over the back of the chair, and his clothes neatly on the seat. She beneath him while he kissed along her jaw and neck. The candles had dropped their light and the sounds from outside had disappeared. She lay beneath him, pale against the black sheet. Naked and ready. Her breath steady and her hands shaking slightly as she raised a hand to cup his arm.
“Only if you are sure,” he looked down at her and noted that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes wet. But she pushed forward, captured his mouth to hers. And he knew.
“Yes,” she whispered, leaned up and captured his mouth in hers. “Make love to me.”
He leaned down, kissed her face and ran a hand down her body. She arched to him. He ran his fingers over her breasts and turned his attention from her lips to neck, from her neck to her chest, from her chest down to her nipple. He ran his hand to her stomach, and turned his attention to her collarbone and chest. She stretched beneath him and smiled as his tongue circled her breast, as he licked her nipple into a tiny, aching bud.
He was gentle, then she whimpered his name and he held her down, bruising her wrists. He licked and bit, and whispered what he would do to her against skin that tasted of sin and sweat. He promised sex and bliss, he ravaged and played across her body. She basked and wrapped herself around him. He tasted, he brought her to the crest and kept her high. When she gasped, Crowley grinned against her skin.
Oh yes, he had found her. And now he had innocent Joanna Beth Harvelle, the hunter, the martyr, shaking beneath him. The one who placed herself at the mouth of the beasts of Hell for Them was begging Him to fuck her.
He turned his attention to her other breast, praised her body and her goodness. He whispered that he was grateful to have found her, he was damned for loving her. He whispered what she needed to hear and promised her perfect lies. He pushed himself up and rested on his elbows, then looked into her eyes and promised he’d worship her and love her.
Only her.
When she writhed against him, he professed love; when she gripped his head in her hands and begged, he moved lower. He licked a line of fire down her belly, then ran his fingers along her ribs until he rested his hands on her hips.
When she bucked, he held.
When he kissed his way to her clit, she whimpered his name.
He smiled against her skin and slid a hand down to cup her heat, then a finger against her clit. She groaned and rolled her hips, crying his name over and over, begging him to not stop. Her hands clawed at his shoulders and hair, and he begged that she wait.
Wait, love.
He praised heaven for her, he damned hell for taking her. He licked along her lips and growled his devotion to her, his beard scratched her thighs and he kissed the burn that followed. He slid two fingers inside of her while his tongue worked her clit, over and over. Faster and faster. He licked, he sucked; pushed and pumped.
She came and called out his name as the orgasm ripped through her. He pulled himself up her body with shaking breathes, with sloppy kisses along her body as sweat and heat mixed, his hand still working antagonizingly against her clit and sliding another back inside of her.
“Again,” he demanded, he pushed harder. “Say it, again, Joanna Beth.”
“You,” Jo gasped, “Crowley. You, you, only you.”
He pulled his hand free, and she whimpered. Then he was inside of her, filling her and whispering her name against her ear. She cried out again. Full, she thought wildly. Full, hot, and alive.
He moved and she moved; he pulled out, pushed back again. She met with each beat, then begged for more.
Faster.
Harder.
Her hand slid from his neck to his shoulder, then she clawed down his back. “Faster,” she demanded, “More,” she cried out as he pistoned his hips.
Jo wrapped her legs around him and pushed up so that she sat against him. Then she let loose; and Crowley let her take control. She was a whirlwind. Hatred, anger, hurt, love pumped through her as she rode him as she took more. She held on and reveled in the feel of him; the feel of him inside of her, the feel of his arms tightening on her waist, the feel of his breath puffing against her wet skin. She turned her head and he licked at her neck. She turned back to him, licked his skin, and laughed when he bit her shoulder.
She could feel! She could feel him!
She felt the second orgasm rising, burning in her belly and shaking at her core. But she held on and laughed at the dirty lusts Crowley whispered in her ear, she whispered them back. She let him whisper his adoration and felt his hands dig bruises into her hip and thigh.
She wanted more. She came with his name on her lips and her mouth against his jaw, she bite at the line until she reached his chin and smiled. He lifted her and pumped into her, and groaned her name as his own orgasm tore through him. She collapsed onto the bed naked and covered in sweat, wearing satisfaction in a smile. Her breath steadied and she smiled up at him. She raised a hand to his face and he took it, kissed it gently, lovingly. When she closed her eyes, he stepped from the bed and let out a shaking breath, he walked to the window.
When he turned back she was asleep. He could see red marks on her shoulders, bruises along her things, and a hickey where her thigh met her cunt. She was a far cry from the righteous woman who put herself in the way of Lilith’s hellhounds. Soon, she would barely recognize the hunter she’d been.
He knew how to play the game. He walked back to the bed, ran a hand over her blond hair, then walked to the door. Yes, Crowley knew how to play.
Author: Muses Wander
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Crowley/Jo
Disclaimer: I own neither Jo nor Crowley, nor any storyline with them. But I'm kind of fascinated by Crowley. I don't have any part in SPN and am merely a fan. :) Please do not sue; I'm unemployed.
Note: This ignores the "closure" we get from Jo's ghost in Season 7. In fact, completely ignore that episode ever happened. Also, this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.
Summary: Crowley finds Jo in Hell.
He understood the game. Yes, he understood quite well.
There were rules, there were weapons, there were secrets. There were times to show all the cards, and times to hold them close. There were times you rushed into a fight and times you took your time and made sure your weapon was ready. And times that you broke every damned rule. Times when you did whatever it took to destroy the damned Winchesters. But there was a definite game. And he understood that.
Crowley walked along the line of souls then slipped through the door. He smirked as he passed the man desperately clinging to the slip of paper with the number one neatly typed, he paused and watched as it twisted into number four million-something-or-a-rather and the man’s soul sighed. He felt the tingle of brilliant annoyance from the man as he walked passed. It was good being king, he thought.
Through the door was another room. This one was an elevator filled with fewer souls who listened to the sweet sounds of the Top 40 from 1996 on eternal repeat. Honestly, he thought, when inspiration struck it had hit with gold with that one. There was only so much *Nsync a soul could handle before it begged for reprieve, or worse. Then there was another room, and another room, and another. But he wasn't interested in them.
He was interested in Her.
Crowley descended; he walked through the layers of hell until he reached her level. He passed as demons slayed souls and as souls slid off their racks to begin their own turns at torture. Another time he would be proud; the production line was moving steadily and the demons were behaving. But today he had a mission.
She was here. And she had been here just long enough.
They say that in hell no one can hear you scream. But he could. He could pinpoint each voice, each desperate cry. He reveled in the screams and the pleas. Sometimes he sat in his office and lifted a glass of dark wine to them, he drank to the sound of their beautiful pain.
He reached the demon and watched it pick up another knife, silver with messily written script scrawled along the hilt. Pain, it proclaimed, and torment. The demon whispered something into Her ear and she shook her head, vehemently. Through the leather gag he could hear her beg and for any other soul he would have raised the heat. Instead he stepped forward and listened to the demon detail what he would do to her, how he would strip away her skin and then her soul.
Again.
Crowley rolled his eyes. He made a mental note to set up a seminar on imagery and speech. He shook his head; so unimaginative, he wanted to say. So bland.
Instead he pulled the demon aside, nodded to Her, then spoke in hushed tones to the demon. Crowley looked back at her. Even in Hell she was beautiful. Her hair clung wet against the sides of her face, her eyes pleaded release, sweat slid down her skin in long lines. He looked back at the demon, black eyed and gruesome. It dripped with sadism and pain, it snickered then stopped and realized a mistake. The mistake.
Crowley smiled; he was forgiving was he not? He understood mistakes, he understood that Hell was confusing. So many souls, so many evils. She was just another one who made a deal, right? Right?
Of course.
The demon thanked him, bowed onto both knees and laid kisses on Crowley’s feet.
Then, it fell devoid of existence at Crowley’s feet.
He barely spared a glance before walking to her. "The pity of hell,” he whispered into her ear as he untied the gag, “is that the bodies can’t go any lower. When demons die here they just become part of the décor.” He waved a hand and the shackles holding Jo released. She whimpered and folded into herself. In a fetal position, she cried then she clung to his hand when he laid it beside her. “There, there,” he whispered. He ran a finger along her jaw and smiled, then waved his other hand and they were away.
Jo stood on legs that shook too hard then moved fully into his embrace and closer to his warmth, into his stillness. With hair damp over her eyes, she looked around them. The room was cool and colored in deep reds with weaving iron vines holding candles that bathed the room in soft orange light. There was an open window in the corner and a cool breeze tickled her nose and chilled her skin.
“Why?” she croaked. Crowley raised his other hand so that her face was cupped in both of his, then lightly kissed her forehead.
“Because,” he whispered, “you are special.” He held a hand up and backed away, when he stepped to the side she saw a carafe of wine waiting. He poured two glasses and the sweet scent of cherries, blackberries, orange, and musk filled the room. He handed her a glass with a sad smile. “The best we have to offer,” he apologized.
She took the glass, a sip, then another. “Thank,” she paused and looked back to him, “Thank you.”
“Jo,” Crowley smiled, “Joanna Beth.” He took her hand in his and kissed along her knuckles, “You were never meant for The Pit.”
Jo pulled her hand away and took a step back. A trick, she thought, this was another trick. The King of Hell, she reminded herself.
“No,” he quickly countered with a smile, with his hands up in surrender, “I promise. No trick. No ruse. A mistake, my dear. And one, I’m afraid, that I don’t have the power to fix. I can only offer this.” He spread his hands and showed a feast of meats, fruits, and breads now on the table.
And so began the descent. With each bite of succulent fruit, each cut of steaming meat, she fell. With each slide of silk against her flesh, each taste of wine on her tongue, he seduced.
The King of Hell was a patient soul. He was wise, he was prepared, he understood the perfection of time. He would leave her, sometimes longer than necessary. He would question her, then ask forgiveness at his ignorance and stupidity. It pained her to think back to her last days and to think of those she left. To think of them. He begged her forgiveness.
He gave her the brightest sun with the bluest skies, he silenced the cries from the below as they spoke in hushed whispers. And he did not press. He gave her dresses made from the softest silk, and thought to the women working the caves to produce the threads. He presented her with soothing ointments and smiled when she smoothed it on her skin; thought of the tears that made the lotion so soft. He gave her absolute darkness and complete softness as she slept, and watched from shadow as her whimpers ceased and her face no longer contorted in pain. He had time.
He left her and made her swear a promise, just one. “Don’t leave the room until I’m back.” Jo looked at him and smirked and with her hand still in his, the smirk fell.
“Where would I go?” she asked with a drop of her shoulder.
He cupped her hand and raised it to his lips, “I don’t want you lost, pet. I don’t want the demons to confuse you with the others. Again.”
She shuddered and agreed. And watched as he left.
He had plans and, as he gathered the freshly baked muffins from the bakery, he had plans. Richard Roman, the dick, happened to be ruining his plans and needed to be removed from the situation. Crowley materialized in Roman’s car and offered a truce. He smiled when Dick countered and insulted him, he raised his hands and agreed that demons were lesser than dirt. He left the muffins.
He went to the demons, he stocked up on humans and souls, he went to the Winchesters. Then felt a dance over his skin as they talked. They didn’t know, they weren’t thinking of her. They were thinking about him, they were worried about Leviathan. She wasn’t even a stray thought.
Good.
He went back to Her.
Jo was bored and had no problem saying so the minute he opened the door. She wore a frown on her face, and a black dress on her body; she walked impatiently around her prison. She wanted to go somewhere, do something. She wanted to shoot something. She wanted to see her mother.
Crowley nodded and kept his head bent, he begged her forgiveness and blamed the demons running amuck and the Leviathan who were causing problems. He apologized that he didn’t have the power to bring her from Hell. He was bound, he apologized. He raised her hand and kissed it.
When she smiled, he smiled. “I,” Jo paused and tightened her grip on his hand, “I missed you.”
“Good,” Crowley grinned and quickly kissed her hand again, “because, darling, I missed you every minute.” He pulled her close, “You smell of hope,” he sniffed along her neck, “and taste,” he kissed where her pulse had once beat steadily, “of redemption.”
Jo laughed with a shake of her head and pushed him again. Then she pushed him back, “And Hell?” She stepped closer.
Crowley felt a second thrill race along his spine, but kept the simple smile on his face, “And Hell?”
“They came for Him,” she whispered as she cupped his face. She ducked her head under his chin, “The angels, they came for Dean. Is he so much better than me?”
Crowley stroked a hand along her back, wrapped his other around her waist. He grinned as he kissed the side of her head, then turned back to her and kissed her forehead. “Perhaps I’ve hidden you away from them, my pet.”
“They found him,” she countered with a shake of her head, the hand at his shoulder tightened. His tightened at her waist. “They found him in The Pit. Couldn’t they find me?” She looked up at him, then cupped his face and chastely kissed his lips. “You found me.”
He looked at her, squeezed her hands, “I will always find you.”
Jo looked down at their hands. And for a moment her eyes flashed, “I know.” She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him; her lips ready as she pulled at his shirt. “I know.”
She bit his lip, licked into his mouth and her arms wrapped around his neck. He pulled her close, pulled his shirt off and pulled at the pathetic straps of her dress. He hissed when she scratched her nails down his chest.
“Only if you are sure,” he whispered. He backed her towards the soft bed.
“Touch me,” she pleaded. She pushed her straps down further and pressed her breasts against his chest. “Please.”
Crowley grinned, snapped, and they were on the bed. Her dress was folded over the back of the chair, and his clothes neatly on the seat. She beneath him while he kissed along her jaw and neck. The candles had dropped their light and the sounds from outside had disappeared. She lay beneath him, pale against the black sheet. Naked and ready. Her breath steady and her hands shaking slightly as she raised a hand to cup his arm.
“Only if you are sure,” he looked down at her and noted that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes wet. But she pushed forward, captured his mouth to hers. And he knew.
“Yes,” she whispered, leaned up and captured his mouth in hers. “Make love to me.”
He leaned down, kissed her face and ran a hand down her body. She arched to him. He ran his fingers over her breasts and turned his attention from her lips to neck, from her neck to her chest, from her chest down to her nipple. He ran his hand to her stomach, and turned his attention to her collarbone and chest. She stretched beneath him and smiled as his tongue circled her breast, as he licked her nipple into a tiny, aching bud.
He was gentle, then she whimpered his name and he held her down, bruising her wrists. He licked and bit, and whispered what he would do to her against skin that tasted of sin and sweat. He promised sex and bliss, he ravaged and played across her body. She basked and wrapped herself around him. He tasted, he brought her to the crest and kept her high. When she gasped, Crowley grinned against her skin.
Oh yes, he had found her. And now he had innocent Joanna Beth Harvelle, the hunter, the martyr, shaking beneath him. The one who placed herself at the mouth of the beasts of Hell for Them was begging Him to fuck her.
He turned his attention to her other breast, praised her body and her goodness. He whispered that he was grateful to have found her, he was damned for loving her. He whispered what she needed to hear and promised her perfect lies. He pushed himself up and rested on his elbows, then looked into her eyes and promised he’d worship her and love her.
Only her.
When she writhed against him, he professed love; when she gripped his head in her hands and begged, he moved lower. He licked a line of fire down her belly, then ran his fingers along her ribs until he rested his hands on her hips.
When she bucked, he held.
When he kissed his way to her clit, she whimpered his name.
He smiled against her skin and slid a hand down to cup her heat, then a finger against her clit. She groaned and rolled her hips, crying his name over and over, begging him to not stop. Her hands clawed at his shoulders and hair, and he begged that she wait.
Wait, love.
He praised heaven for her, he damned hell for taking her. He licked along her lips and growled his devotion to her, his beard scratched her thighs and he kissed the burn that followed. He slid two fingers inside of her while his tongue worked her clit, over and over. Faster and faster. He licked, he sucked; pushed and pumped.
She came and called out his name as the orgasm ripped through her. He pulled himself up her body with shaking breathes, with sloppy kisses along her body as sweat and heat mixed, his hand still working antagonizingly against her clit and sliding another back inside of her.
“Again,” he demanded, he pushed harder. “Say it, again, Joanna Beth.”
“You,” Jo gasped, “Crowley. You, you, only you.”
He pulled his hand free, and she whimpered. Then he was inside of her, filling her and whispering her name against her ear. She cried out again. Full, she thought wildly. Full, hot, and alive.
He moved and she moved; he pulled out, pushed back again. She met with each beat, then begged for more.
Faster.
Harder.
Her hand slid from his neck to his shoulder, then she clawed down his back. “Faster,” she demanded, “More,” she cried out as he pistoned his hips.
Jo wrapped her legs around him and pushed up so that she sat against him. Then she let loose; and Crowley let her take control. She was a whirlwind. Hatred, anger, hurt, love pumped through her as she rode him as she took more. She held on and reveled in the feel of him; the feel of him inside of her, the feel of his arms tightening on her waist, the feel of his breath puffing against her wet skin. She turned her head and he licked at her neck. She turned back to him, licked his skin, and laughed when he bit her shoulder.
She could feel! She could feel him!
She felt the second orgasm rising, burning in her belly and shaking at her core. But she held on and laughed at the dirty lusts Crowley whispered in her ear, she whispered them back. She let him whisper his adoration and felt his hands dig bruises into her hip and thigh.
She wanted more. She came with his name on her lips and her mouth against his jaw, she bite at the line until she reached his chin and smiled. He lifted her and pumped into her, and groaned her name as his own orgasm tore through him. She collapsed onto the bed naked and covered in sweat, wearing satisfaction in a smile. Her breath steadied and she smiled up at him. She raised a hand to his face and he took it, kissed it gently, lovingly. When she closed her eyes, he stepped from the bed and let out a shaking breath, he walked to the window.
When he turned back she was asleep. He could see red marks on her shoulders, bruises along her things, and a hickey where her thigh met her cunt. She was a far cry from the righteous woman who put herself in the way of Lilith’s hellhounds. Soon, she would barely recognize the hunter she’d been.
He knew how to play the game. He walked back to the bed, ran a hand over her blond hair, then walked to the door. Yes, Crowley knew how to play.