His command slices through the room like a blade, cruel and deliberate.
“Tell me what else you’d beg me for.”
The words hang heavy in the air—thicker than the heat crawling over my skin, filthier than the slick between my thighs, darker than the shadows dancing across his face.
He’s still straddling me, fully dressed, pressed against my naked, trembling body. His cock is a steel rod behind his tailored slacks, twitching every time I move, every time I breathe, every time I look at him. And I can’t stop looking at him. I hate that I can’t stop looking at him.
Because he’s beautiful in a way that feels like a curse.
A punishment wrapped in perfect bone structure, sharp collarbones, and obsidian eyes that promise damnation with every blink.
He drags the cold metal of his hook down between my breasts, over my stomach, circling my navel like a predator playing with its kill.
My lips are cracked open, breath stuttering. There’s no part of me untouched. No part of me unclaimed. And yet he hasn’t even fucked me.
Not once.
I think that’s the worst part.
He owns me without having to take anything. Just watching. Just waiting. Just denying.
“I…” My voice shakes, and he tilts his head, encouraging without mercy.
“You what?”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
He smiles. It’s not kind.
It’s the smile of a monster who’s been waiting years to sink his teeth into something that bleeds just the right shade of red.
“You know exactly what to say, Tahlia. Your cunt is screaming for it. Say it.”
I close my eyes, shame burning down my cheeks like acid, my voice barely audible. “I want your mouth.”
He hums. One hand comes up, not gently, not softly—just forcefully, fingers gripping my chin, yanking my face up so I have to look at him. His eyes search mine, not like he’s looking for the truth, but like he already knows it—and he’s waiting for me to admit it.
“To do what?” he asks.
I want to sink into the mattress. I want to claw my way out of this moment. I want to fight. But my body is so desperate, sowired and raw, that the words tumble out like blood from a slit throat.
“To make me cum.”
He grins like a devil given permission.
And then he moves.
Quickly.
His hand wraps around my throat, not cutting off air, just holding, just claiming. His mouth crushes mine, all tongue and teeth and unforgivable hunger. I gasp, and he devours it, eating every sound, every ounce of resistance I still had left.
His fingers slide between my legs.
No teasing this time.
No soft touches.
Two fingers—thick, calloused, brutal—slam inside me with a rhythm that feels like war drums against my ribs. I cry out, legs jerking, hips bucking, and he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.
