Make it tremble.
Make it so raw and swollen, she would forget her own name and beg me to remind her who she belonged to. She would wear the ache like a crown. It would be my mark, my proof, my ruinous reward.
And when she finally stood to leave my bed, my cum would still be dripping down her thighs—a trail of obedience no one could ignore.
No one could touch.
No one could ever erase.
Nyomi walked into my war room like she owned the fucking air. Shoulders back. Chin high. That skirt hugging her hips like it was scared to let go.
And just like that. . .every head turned and even the ones that shouldn’t have. Over two hundred of my Scales—men trained to resist torture, to aim through gunfire, to slit throats without blinking—forgot who they were.
Their discipline?
Gone.
Their breathing?
Shaky.
Their focus?
Fucked.
Nyomi entered, and they fell apart like amateurs at a goddamn burlesque show. And for that alone. . .I would ruin her.
Punish that pussy with every brutal inch of my cock.
Slow.
Deep.
Cruel.
I would stretch that sweet, wet cunt until she begged. Until the echo of her own moans humiliated her. Until she couldn’t sit on her throne without remembering who she belonged to.
Because that fucking walk.
That smooth sway of her hips.
Too timed.
Too confident.
She knew what she was doing. She knew who was watching. And still, she held her chin up like a queen.
The sheer blouse and the way it clung to her breasts. The lace bra that I could see from my desk as she got closer. The pencil skirt. The flash of thigh from the slit high enough to stir earthquakes.
But it was the stilettos that destroyed me.
Red.
Sleek.
Razor sharp.
So fucking dangerous.
