Soaked, actually.
For him.
Moaning, I bite my lip hard to keep quiet, but the sound that slips out is needy and humiliating and so fucking desperate that my wrist jerks against the chain.The metal bites into the tender skin, reminding me I’m not free.Not from him, not from this.
“Royal…”
His name tastes like danger.
Like ownership.
Like every twisted thing inside me waking up and stretching its claws.
I rub slow circles over my clit, letting the pressure build, letting the memory of his voice settle over me.
You think you’re safe with me?
No.
But I want to be unsafe with him.
I want him to hold me down.I want him to drag that knife over my thigh again, slow and threatening, until my whole body shakes.I want him to pin my wrists above my head, knife in one hand, me in the other, and make me say his name like a sin.Make me submit to him.The fantasy crashes over me fast and hot and uncontrollable.
My hips buck.
God.
I’m already close.
I slide two fingers inside myself, panting, arching, imagining his cock there instead, thicker, rougher, pressing deeper than I ever could.I imagine his breath on my ear, his voice telling me to hold still, to be good, to take what he gives me.
My back bows off the cot.My breath comes in ragged little pulls.
“Fuck.Royal.Please…”
Do I even know what I’m begging for?Maybe I’m begging for him to lose control.Maybe I’m begging for him to come back through that door and do all the things he threatened without saying.
Maybe I’m begging for him to break first.Maybe I’m begging for him to mark me with that knife, to claim me in a way no one has before.Hurt me so bad, I bleed.
I thumb my clit harder, faster, chasing the edge, the chain rattling like applause.
And then it hits.
A sharp, stunning climax ripping through me so violently I slap my free hand over my mouth to smother the scream.My whole body trembles, curls inward, then bows again as the pleasure keeps rolling over me in waves.I squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see stars.
I sink back, boneless, panting.
Sweaty.
Shaking.
Alive in a way I haven’t felt in years.
The aftershocks fade slowly, leaving me staring at the ceiling with my fingers still wet between my thighs.
“Next time,” I whisper to the empty room.“You’re the one losing control.”
The chain rattles as I settle back onto the cot, a twisted smile tugging at my mouth.
