I freeze, breath caught.
“You still want more,piccola?” he asks, voice low, deliberate.
I nod once, then again, and whisper, “Yes.”
His lips curl as he leans in and affixes the clit clamp carefully—precisely—fastening it just tight enough to make me gasp and moan all at once.
Pleasure bursts like sparks across my nerves.
“Oh my God—Dante?—”
He watches me squirm, watches my hands fist in the sheets. His thumb brushes the chain that runs from the collar to my breasts and now my clit, a beautiful silver Y bisecting me.
The touch alone makes me come as he pulls and moves the chain until I’m moaning with each twitch of my legs.
“You look ruined already,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
I almost saythen do it, but I don’t need to.
He rises, grabs a condom from the nightstand, and I watch as he tears it open, rolls it on.
This cock is massive. Thick. And all mine for the night.
God, I love my job.
His eyes stay locked on mine as he crawls back over me, one hand wrapped around the chains, the other guiding his cock to my entrance.
He fills me in one smooth stroke—deep, tight, perfect—and pauses when he’s fully inside.
We both groan as I work to breathe around the monster he’s just slid into me.
But before I can move, his fist closes around the chain and pulls—gently, but firm enough to make the clamp on my clit tug and the ones on my nipples tighten. I call out on instinct.
“Don’t come,” he warns, eyes blazing. “You want to come? You ask.”
I bite my lip, already trembling. “And if I don’t?”
He leans down, dragging his teeth along my throat. “Then I’ll stop and spank this beautiful ass with my belt.”
He moves then—deep strokes, slow but merciless—hips grinding with every thrust, his grip on the chains keeping me high, on edge, on fire.
“I know how badly you want my fat cock fucking you.”
I moan. I writhe. I beg.
He fucks me through all of it.
And never lets me fall.
I lose count of how many times he edges me.
It’s everything—his cock, his hands, the chains biting into my skin when he pulls, the throbbing ache of the clamp between my legs. Every inch of me is tuned to him, responsive, strung tight like a wire threatening to snap.
His hips grind into mine as he fucks me deeper, harder. His rhythm is relentless—made of frustration and fury—and I know without asking:
He’s not just fucking me.
He’s exorcising Grant from his bloodstream.
