My gaze locks onto the discarded shirt on the floor as the sound of a bullet slicing through the air causes me to stiffen.
There’s no sound.
No struggle.
Nothing.
Azrael’s heavy pants slice through the ominous silence of the room, and when I finally release the sob trapped in my throat, Azrael is there.
He gathers me in his arms, and, for the first time, he allows me to cry against his chest, and it’s freeing.
I’m free in the arms of the devil.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Azrael
Watching her via the hidden cameras has become my favorite pastime. I have the app on my phone, and every time I’m in my office, I’ve become obsessed with turning my attention toward her.
She’s become a distraction. The perfect distraction from a world of corruption.
My little slave doesn’t realize the hold she has on me. She’s entrapped me as much as I have her.
I’ve never taken note of anyone the way I do her. Every move she makes I calculate to memory.
The way she concentrates as she reads, and her chest rising and falling with each breath has my body burning with anticipation.
Does she realize how truly captivating she is?
She nestles farther down into the blanket, and I kick myself for having it in there in the first place.
Are her nipples pebbled beneath my shirt? Can shestill smell me? Does she realize the stain on the bottom is from my pre-cum, evidence of my ever-present arousal?
Her cheeks pinken, and her eyes dart around the room as if she’s embarrassed.
What the hell is she reading?
Leaning forward, I zoom in on the screen but can’t make out the name of the book. But with the way her heart is pounding almost out of her chest, forcing her tits to rise, has my cock twitching with intrigue.
My dirty little slave wants to be reminded of her place.
I push my chair away from my desk, allowing me enough room to unbuckle my belt, then I slide my zipper down and pull my throbbing cock from my boxers.
Is she thinking of me while reading the book?
A surge of jealousy has my chest contracting as I consider her reading about a fictional man, and I hate the fact that I’m experiencing something similar to jealousy over a fucking book.
Jesus, Azrael, pull yourself together.
She licks her lips and glances around the room again, and I imagine those lips around my girth and her choking on every inch I force her to take. Her nails would dig into my skin, leaving marks of her own behind while I ignore her struggle and push forward, reveling in the wetness between us.
With my hand fisting my cock, I spit onto the tip and watch in fascination as it trickles down my fingers, creating a lubricant that will have to suffice since she isn’t readily available to me.
What makes her mouth and spittle more enjoyable compared to everything else? And why is my own spit a poor substitute now?
I could have her now if I wanted her. She’s my slave to do with as I see fit. I bought her.
Though, my mind darts back to the basement yesterday; she’ll be sore, and I don’t want her to hate me.
