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“You know what they say, Feyre.”
Mor perched herself proudly against the doorframe, gesturing with a wide sweep of her arms to the gift that she’d laid out on Feyre’s bed. Feyre had only been gone for all of 10 minutes—on a quick trip to the convenience store across the road for a carton of milk that she was now unconvinced they even needed.
She stared blankly into her bedroom, grasping for a saying that could possibly relate to what Mor had gotten her.
Mor cast her eyes towards the plastered ceiling like some deity might take pity on her for having such an oblivious friend. “They say,” she drew out the vowel like it might tempt anticipation, “that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
The reminder that she was recently dumped felt too much like a gut punch for Feyre to be adequately grateful. “I don’t think this is what they meant.”
“Oh, come on.” Mor took her hand, tugging her into the room. “You said no to dating again, and no to a casual hook up, but this—”
“Is creepy,” Feyre finished.
Mor pouted. “I think he looks handsome.”
“I…” Feyre couldn’t exactly deny that.
Laying on her bed was a naked, life-size doll. She couldn’t imagine how much something like this had cost. As someone who dedicated herself to the art of capturing the human body in paint, she could admire that the doll was… fascinatingly life-like. His brown, flawless skin looked soft—not the least bit plastic under the harsh fluorescent light. Still, something in her was unsettled as she watched Mor lean over to press her finger into his cheek, watching the tip of her finger disappear into the fake flesh. As lifelike as he was, there was something about him that was distinctly… uncanny.
Feyre decided it was the dead stare from his otherwise breathtaking violet eyes. “Mor…” she sighed. “I don’t even know what I would use this for.”
“I could think of one thing,” she answered, eyes darting to the absurdly large penis jutting out from between his legs. Feyre had purposely been avoiding looking at it too closely. She had never seen a penis that wasn’t Tamlin’s and even if this one was fake… Her face already felt too hot.
“He has a name, you know.”
“Please don’t tell—”
“Rhysand.”
It was so, so absurd, but oily betrayal slid through her veins. It had only been a week since she had broken up with Tamlin and somehow, giving him a name made him seem far too real.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to get to know each other,” Mor said with a laugh, seeing that Feyre was effectively scandalized. She left with a pat on the back and a sultry wink, deliberately shutting the door behind her.
Feyre didn’t want to look at the thing. But now that Mor wasn’t there to watch her, Feyre couldn’t help sliding her eyes back to him. She supposed that dolls like him were designed to be alluring. And alluring… he certainly was. She wondered if the doll had been modeled after a real person. Even if she ignored the muscular build and the large, erect cock, his face alone could mark him as the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. If there was a man who truly looked like this doll, Feyre would certainly like to meet him.
As for the doll… the smirk on his plush lips didn’t meet his cold, utterly blank eyes. How could anyone endure that look, she wondered? Feyre thought if she actually wanted to… use him as was intended, she would need to close her eyes to pretend he wasn’t watching her like a corpse. She shivered at just the thought of it.
“You seem like a nice guy, Rhysand,” she said, sliding her arms beneath his shoulders to lift him. He was surprisingly heavy. “I promise it’s not you… it’s me.”
There was hardly any space in her closet, but she found if she pushed aside some of her coats, she could tuck him just enough into the corner that she could almost forget he was in there.
And she did.
For nearly six months, Feyre had more or less forgotten about the sex doll in her closet. There were some spare moments when she remembered him—lonely nights where she was feeling just drunk and lonely enough to think what if… but every time she had felt tempted, she remembered the vacancy of his expression and thought better. It had just been a way for Mor to give her a laugh during a tough week. Soon even her roommate’s jokes about him were replaced by newer, more relevant embarrassments. Like how three days ago, Feyre had purchased a grimoire from a crystal shop in a graceless attempt at flirting.
She had only gone in because the man at the counter was gorgeous. And when he had asked her if she had come in for anything, she’d panicked and grabbed the first thing off the shelf. She had thought the leatherbound book was just a journal, until she had come home and had actually bothered to page through the thing.
Mor’s eyes had lit up as soon as she saw the spells and incantations scrawled inside. “We should have a seance!”
Feyre had given her a flat look. “That’s a terrible idea.”
But once Mor had made up her mind about something, there was little Feyre could say to convince her otherwise. It was how she ended up with a naked man in her closet, and it was precisely the reason why Feyre was currently sat cross-legged on the wooden panels of her bedroom floor.
Mor sat across from her, her smooth features caressed by the flickering candlelight that surrounded them in a circle. She had read the entire grimoire from cover to cover, and now smiled with the confidence to bring down an army as she lit a stick of lavender incense.
“To ward off bad spirits,” she explained.
Feyre nodded as though that made perfect sense, wondering why her heart was beating so fast when she didn’t even believe in ghosts.
“Take my hands.” It was a relief to feel that, for all Mor’s composure, her palms were sweaty, too. “Now repeat after me.”
Hear us East, West, South, and North
Feyre could have sworn that the flame dancing on the candles became more intense, like an inaudible drum had increased their tempo.
From any realm, we call you forth
Outside, the wind was howling. It was surely all in her own head, but she could have sworn she heard something scratching at the glass.
To this circle, we bind thee
Bid your service, then go free
And Gods, Feyre hadn’t paid any attention to Mor laying the circle of crystals and candles but now she was combing her eyes over it, hoping that it could actually contain whatever it was they were calling.
This contract from dusk to dawn
We conjure thee, anon, anon
She held her breath and the world seemed to hold it with her. Even the wind had gone quiet, listening for what might happen next. Mor was glancing around the room, brown eyes wide with anticipation, but it dulled with every passing second where nothing happened.
“We don’t have to wait here until dawn, do we?” Feyre asked. Her knees were already feeling stiff from sitting in this position for too long.
Mor reached for the grimoire, frowning as she read over the pages again and again. “We did everything correctly.”
“Maybe the spirits are busy.” Privately, Feyre was thinking that of course it didn’t work. None of it was real. Mor was using a cheap book she had purchased from a novelty store. Feyre felt silly that her pulse was rushing from saying a few rhyming words.
“Busy doing what?”
“I don’t know… haunting things? I’m sure there’s more important things for them to do than entertain us.”
With a huff, Mor grabbed the book and climbed to her feet. “Well maybe you can use this as an excuse to return the book and talk to Tarquin again.”
Feyre took that to mean they were finished. “You’re right,” she agreed, smiling in relief. “Tarquin can ease my disappointment that there were no sexy ghosts to entertain us through the night.”
That earned a smile from her roommate, which quickly melted to horror as Feyre leaned over to blow out one of the candles.
“No!”
Smoke drifted from the pillar of wax, and that familiar scent of vapor was already filling the room.
“Why can’t I blow them out?” Feyre asked warily, examining the other 20-something candles that were still proudly lit.
The warm lighting washed over Mor’s high cheekbones, as though its orange hue was trying to replace the color that had drained from her face. “The book says the candles need to stay lit to contain the spirit.”
“Well… there is no spirit,” Feyre reasoned. “So there’s nothing that needs to be contained, right? I can’t sleep with a bunch of lit candles in my room. Unless you can promise that the firefighter who will rescue me is going to be hot and emotionally available.”
Mor laughed, but it was forced. “Have you seen Lucien?”
“I said emotionally available.”
She raised her hands in surrender. “Fine—blow out the candles. Lucien can break some other girl’s heart tonight.”
Again, feeling so childish for letting it bother her, Feyre leaned over to blow out the remaining candles. She noticed Mor wince in the corner of her eye, which did little to curb the growing pit in her stomach. Maybe she’d been watching too many scary movies lately.
Maybe they both had. Mor looked uneasy as she tugged the sides of her cardigan closer and crossed her arms over her chest. “I feel like I need to take shower. Promise you’ll come save me if I start screaming?”
“Mor, if you scream just to scare me—”
“I would never,” she said. Feyre knew that was a lie, but at the moment her roommate looked unsettled enough that she trusted she was safe from any pranks—for now.
“Go shower. I’ll clean this up and keep an eye out.”
At least it gave her something to do. A way to distract herself from the darkness that seemed to loom in the departure of the candlelight. She switched on the lamp at her bedside table in an effort to dispel it, but the shadows only seemed to find places to hide. Behind her drapes, under the bed…in her closet, which she didn’t recall leaving open.
Feyre didn’t dare dwell on that thought. She merely shut the door and began gathering the candles off the floor and placing them neatly on her desk. Mor had turned the labels out when they’d been sitting in the circle, and the black wax had certainly looked menacing. But now that Feyre could see the brand, some of her anxiety eased. Yankee candles didn’t exactly scream occult, even if Mor had gotten the witches brew scent. And as Feyre plucked the crystals from the floor, she was fairly certain they were made of plastic.
Mor was just trying to scare me, she decided. Irritatingly, it had worked, but now the illusion was shattered.
After shoving everything into a drawer, she settled on her bed with an ipad to finish up sketches, listening to the wind scraping against the side of the house and the distant sound of water running. If she listened closely, she could hear Mor humming to Taylor Swift’s new album and…
And she could hear something else, too. A soft, velvet like voice that was so quiet she almost didn’t catch.
“Feyre darling…”
Her blood went cold. That was a man’s voice.
Feyre scrambled to her feet, trying to determine where it had come from. Outside? The kitchen? If she ran to look for a knife, would she be running right into danger? And Mor… Mor was in the shower. Completely defenseless.
“Feyre,” the voice called again, louder this time. Definitely inside. Every hair on her body stood on edge, and she frantically pulled out her phone to dial emergency services. Her hand was shaking as she raised the speaker to her ear.
There was no ringing.
Her heartbeat dragged her into each excruciating second as she waited for that dial tone, but there was only silence. Only silence and her rushing, hammering pulse.
She pulled the phone away from her ear to see it had died, despite being on full charge.
“Darling, you’re not ignoring me again, are you?”
Feyre put her hand over her mouth to smother the panic clawing up her throat. Did he not know where she was?
The closet door creaked, and Feyre watched in horror as a beautiful, naked man emerged from the darkness.
He wore a cruel smile, and his eyes lit up as they met hers. “Ah, there you are,” he said in that same deep, sensual voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”
The phone tumbled out of her hands, clattering as it smashed against the floor. He didn’t even wince at the sound. He merely kept his attention trained on Feyre, amusement twinkling in his star-kissed violet eyes.
“You’re…”
“Rhysand,” he finished, stepping into the room. Moonlight bathed his features, gleaming on his raven-black hair and brown skin. A half smile played on his lips as he theatrically bowed. “In the flesh.”
Feyre pressed her palms to her eyes and rubbed. “I must be asleep.”
The floorboards creaked under his approach. “Why are you so surprised, hmm?” he purred, circling her like a cat. “You called me here. So demanding, too. Anon, anon.”
“W-we called a spirit.”
Rhysand grinned in delight as his eyes roved over her. “Oh? And what do you think I am?”
“A doll,” she whispered, stumbling backwards until her back hit the wall. “You’re just a doll.”
“Just a doll?” he crooned, clicking his tongue. The sound settled through her body like a shot of hard liquor. “You’re going to hurt my feelings, Feyre. Is that why you’ve locked me in the closet all this time?”
“You’re not real,” she insisted.
In a single stride, Rhysand closed the distance between them. Feyre’s fingers dug into the drywall as his erection pressed against her stomach. His lips ghosted across her neck—warm and soft, just like his breath. She could feel it, fanning over her skin like he was human.
“Touch me,” he breathed. “Do I not feel real, Feyre?”
Something hot and wet slid across her throat—a tongue, followed by a set of teeth that bit down hard enough to make her cry out. His tongue returned to soothe that small hurt and, impossibly, Feyre found her cry tapering off into a moan. Found herself wondering what it might feel like if Rhysand did the same thing… lower down.
Rhysand made a low, guttural sound of approval. “You like that?”
“No,” she lied, surrendering her grip on the drywall so she could shove at his chest.
That only encouraged Rhysand to press closer, pushing Feyre’s back harder against the wall. She hissed as he gathered both her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. “You called me here to service you,” he said, wedging his knee between her legs. “And yet, for months you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“I still want nothing to do with you,” she snarled, bucking her hips in defiance of the hand that was tugging at her jeans.
Rhysand almost seemed to be enjoying the pushback, like this were all some game as his hand dived beneath the waistband of her jeans. He chuckled darkly as his fingers sought the folds of her cunt. Feyre’s cheeks burned as he withdrew his glistening fingers. “Liar,” he whispered, almost sweetly. “You’re this wet at the sight of me? You could have been riding my dick this whole time.”
Feyre opened her mouth to protest, and Rhysand used the opportunity to shove his wet fingers into her mouth, making her taste her own arousal.
“Do you taste good darling?” he asked, pressing cruelly down on her tongue so that Feyre coughed against his digits. “Be a good girl and suck it clean.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, but after a humiliating moment Feyre obeyed, hollowing her cheeks to suck on his long, thick fingers.
“So pretty, when you obey me,” he cooed, pandering to some dark, twisted part of her that reveled in the praise. Fingers still in her mouth, Rhysand brought his lips to her ear, practically kissing her lobe as he whispered, “Tonight, Feyre, I’m going to use my new, pretty doll until she begs me to let her come. And then I’m going to fuck you until your spell forces me to leave.”
Feyre whimpered as he removed his fingers from her mouth and wiped the excess off on her cheek. She watched, half in dread and half in… something else, as he expertly unbuckled her belt.
“Turn around,” he growled.
She should be running, Feyre thought. Screaming until Mor could hear it over the shower and the music. Instead, she did as she was told, blinking back tears as she faced the wall. Cold leather bit into her skin as Rhysand used her own belt to tie her hands behind her back.
“Good girl,” he murmured, turning her back around with little more than a guiding hand on the shoulder. His eyes were so dark, swirling with heat and pleasure as he took in her flushed face and red-rimmed eyes. “Now get on your knees.”
His massive erection was still bobbing in the space between them. Feyre could only stare at the veins crawling up his long, thick shaft. It was the nicest penis she had ever seen, and part of her could help admiring it. The other, more rational half of her brain was panicking at the thought of trying to fit it into her mouth. Into any part of her body, really.
“Kneel.” Rhysand’s voice had gone cold with authority, and one look at his face had Feyre dropping to her knees. She looked up expectantly, and was almost disappointed when no praise came. Instead Rhysand grabbed a fistful of her hair and guided his flushed head to her lips. The tip was already beaded with his arousal, which he took care to spread over her bottom lip as though it were a balm.
Feyre’s face burned, and she stared up into his smirking face hoping he could read the hatred in her eyes. If anything, it seemed that the eye contact only improved his fun.
His grip on her hair tightened, and he tapped her cheek. “Open that pretty mouth for me, Feyre.”
If she bit it off, would he even feel it, she wondered?
With a shaky breath, Feyre parted her lips, only to immediately gag as Rhysand thrusted his hips. It was too much too soon, and she spluttered as her throat started to spasm around his cock. He held her hair tightly as she tried to rear back, desperate for air.
“Shhh, relax darling. A good doll takes it.” He held his hips still as she choked on him, stroking her hair as he waited for her to adjust.
Feyre couldn’t see past the tears blurring her vision, but she focused on breathing through her nose. Rhysand hummed once she’d regained control.
“Just like that,” he said, reaching down to brush the tears away from her cheeks. “See? Such a perfect fuck doll.”
He pushed his hips farther, seemingly determined to make her take the whole length of him. Again, Feyre’s throat began panicking at the intrusion, but with her arms behind her back and her scalp burning from how firmly Rhysand held her still, there was nothing she could do but take.
She swallowed in an effort to breathe, encouraging him even deeper. That earned Feyre a low, scraping groan that turned her body molten.
Every man who had ever touched her—and there had admittedly not been many—had always done so with tenderness, like she was a delicate, breakable thing. Now, her knees were aching from their position on the floor, and her eyes stung from a fresh round of tears, and her heart was racing like she had never felt more alive.
“Fuck, Feyre. Your mouth is perfect.”
Once, Mor tried to teach her about pairing wine—how certain flavors compliment each other just right. Feyre didn’t think she had ever understood that concept as well as she did right then, when the tugging on her hair was paired with just the right amount of praise that any registered pain transcended into pleasure.
She moaned, actually moaned, around his cock. Her drool was starting to coat her chin and it was filthy and strange and wrong, but it was like she had traded all of those things for a hit of desire. It was racing through her bloodstream, rewiring every nerve until she was nothing more than a slave to sensation.
There was only Rhysand and how much she suddenly ached to please him.
His grip tightened. Feyre whimpered, lost to the edge of pain and pleasure as Rhysand began thrusting into her mouth in earnest. “So pretty like this,” he grunted. “Fucking made to take my cock, Feyre.”
Rhysand’s rhythm faltered, and he yanked her forward until her lips were flush against his pelvis. Feyre fought her gag reflex as she felt his erection throb, followed seconds later by a warm, salty liquid that poured down her throat.
“Swallow,” he instructed, voice warbled with pleasure. He waited until she obeyed before he pulled her off him, smirking as he watched a string of come hang from her lips to the tip of his penis. Feyre quickly angled her head to wipe her mouth against her shoulder.
He tilted his head. “Aren’t you going to thank me for the midnight snack?”
“I… I didn’t know that you could do that,” she whispered, voice little more than rasp.
Rhysand stroked her hair, looking extremely pleased with himself. “ I can do much more than that, Feyre. Allow me to prove it to you.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before he used her belted hands to haul Feyre to her feet. Feyre already sensed what was coming next as he walked her to the bed, and she could no longer say it was fear thrumming in her veins as Rhysand pushed her onto her stomach.
Feyre let him pose her, obedient just like the doll he wanted as he tugged off her clothes and raised her bare ass into the air. She was so wet she could feel how it coated the inside of her thighs.
Rhysand wasted no time in taking her just like that. There was no slow thrusting to help her accommodate to his size—and she understood why. She was a doll, and dolls weren’t fucked for her pleasure, they were fucked for his.
She gasped into the covers as he stretched her open, forcing her to take it all as he held her down with a single hand on the wrists tied at her back.
“Is this how you like to be fucked, Feyre?” he asked roughly.
Ferye tried to answer, tried to reach for words that could possibly explain this strange haze of desire and passion and hatred and self-loathing. Yes, got stuck in her throat, but so did no. Neither of them quite described the pleasure that clawed relentlessly up her spine. And how could she speak around the breath he forcefully expelled from her lungs with every decadent, brutal thrust?
She was only capable of whining and hoping that he could decipher what that meant.
Rhysand kissed her along her throat. “Don’t worry, darling,” he panted. “I know what you need. Fuck dolls need to be filled, don’t they? Just like this.”
Full. That was a perfect way to describe it. She felt so, so perfectly full. Is this what she could have felt like the whole time?
She was suddenly hoisted up by a hand in her hair, forcing her to arch her back. The angle allowed Rhysand impossibly deeper, until he was hitting a spot that had her legs shaking. He turned her head, every muscle in her body so strained, so tight, so under his control as he pressed his lips to hers. His tongue pushed into her mouth, seizing control there, too, and Feyre had never felt so weightless.
“My beautiful Feyre,” he whispered, letting her taste every syllable. “You love this, don’t you? Like your body knows it’s mine.”
He punctuated that thought with another thrust that had her vision turning white.
“Do you want to come, darling?” he purred, like he was so generous for asking. “You have to say it.”
She whined in response, because she wanted too much to give voice to.
He clicked his tongue, biting her bottom lip in reprimand. That only sent her further towards the edge, especially when accompanied by the hand that was suddenly between her legs, rubbing against her clit in rhythm to his savage pace.
“Beg for it,” he said, eyes bright and burning as they watched her struggle for words.
“Please,” she managed with a sob. “Please, Rhys—ah-and, please let me come.”
This time, Rhysand was the one who whined. “Say it again.”
“Plea—”
“No,” he interrupted harshly. “Say my name.”
“Rhys—” she was cut off with a gasp as Rhysand smothered her mouth with his own, circling her clit with a vigor that had her trembling in his arms. His tongue sampled every sound that tried to escape her throat, swallowing her moans of pleasure as her body tightened.
Her pleasure rose to an unsustainable height—until it bordered pain, until it bordered freedom. She was crying as she shattered into fractals of starlight, and Rhysand kept her moving through it. Kissing her like her lips were the only thing that tethered him to this plane of existence.
Until he broke away to murmur, “Again.”
At first, she thought he meant his name. But those fingers were still moving—too fast— against her clit. Feyre shook her head, a fresh wave of tears springing to her eyes. “I can’t.”
He smiled, cruel and beautiful enough that she knew he was going to prove her wrong. “My pretty little doll is going to come as many times as I say she will. So again, Feyre.”
Releasing her hair, Rhys let her fall face-first back onto the bed so he could redouble his efforts. He kept her legs spread open with his thighs, holding her pinned so tightly in place that she couldn't squirm away as he circled her clit again and again and again.
“You’re going to come on my cock as many times as I want you to,” he growled.
Feyre sobbed into the sheets, twitching from overstimulation as her body was forced to accept every stab of pleasure. He dragged her towards the edge faster this time, still riding off the pleasure of her last high.
She clenched painfully tight around him.
“Again.”
“Rhysand,” she begged.
“Who do you belong to?” he snarled.
“You.”
That answer seemed to change something in him. Rhysand’s pace became slower, less punishing. She could have collapsed from the relief. “That’s right Feyre,” he said, stroking a hand over her spine. “You belong to me.”
She felt him unfasten the belt at her wrists, and then he was flipping her onto her back.
Those eyes were softer than before, and when he kissed her it was sweet, gentle.
“I belong to you, too,” he whispered, tucking his face into her collarbone and he re-entered her this way. Pleasure ebbed like a wave over that shore of pain, and this time when she went over, Rhysand went too.
It felt like touching starlight. Hot and bright and burning.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with open reverence. “Thank you for summoning me.” He kissed her forehead. “Do me a favor and ride my face every once in a while.”
Feyre laughed, collapsing against the bed as she struggled to regain her breath. “I’m pretty sure the spell said your contract lasts until dawn.”
His answering grin was fiendish.
Feyre buried her face in his neck, noting that he smelled like the witches brew candle. Sea salt and citrus and lavender. She smiled at the thought, grateful she’d kept everything she needed for the spell in her room. She had a feeling she would be returning to that page in the grimoire again… and again… and—
“Again.”