“Color?”
“Green.”
“Then lose the towel.”
My fingers obey, and the terry cloth drops to the floor. Cool air hits my wet skin and tightens my nipples so fast it hurts. I’m standing naked in front of him, exposed and dripping and shamefully aroused, and he’s still fully clothed from the waist down.
He steps closer, and the floor creaks under his weight.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m scared.”
“Good.” He circles behind me, and he’s at my back, his body heat radiating against my bare skin, and then the cold flat of the blade finds the side of my throat. “If you can take this, you can take anything I throw at you.”
The cold steel presses against the side of my throat, and my own heartbeat begs against the edge. My knees start to buckle, but his free hand catches me around the waist, pulling me back against his chest.
“Be still, Anya.” His voice is low against my ear, almost tender. “If you twitch, I will cut you. And you will thank me for it.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, because I believe him, and because fresh slick is already coating my inner thighs.
His free hand slides down my stomach, over the trembling muscles of my abdomen. His fingers find the wet heat between my legs, and he groans against my throat.
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking drenched.”
“I know.” My voice comes out broken. “I know, I can’t—”
He shoves three thick fingers inside me without warning, and the stretch is immediate, obscene, too much, too fast. I cry out before I can stop myself.
The blade bites.
A bright sting across the side of my throat, enough to make my eyes water, and my cunt clenches so hard around his fingers that he grunts behind me.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Oh fuck—”
“There she is. The little scientist who gets wet when I cut her.”
“Don’t stop.” The words spill out. “Please don’t stop.”
He fucks me with his fingers like he’s punishing me for wanting this. Every brutal thrust is revenge for something I didn’t do. The heel of his palm grinds against my clit with every stroke. I’m sobbing quietly, broken little noises I don’t recognizecoming from my own throat, and still I push back onto his hand because I need more, I need the hurt.
“Who does this pussy belong to?” His voice is rough against my ear.
I can’t answer—I’m crying too hard, shaking too hard, my whole body a live wire of pleasure and pain and terror.
His fingers slow, and I whine in protest. “Say it or I stop.”
“You.” The word tears out of me. “Yours. Fuck, please don’t stop—”
“Good girl.”
He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and I actually sob at the loss, my cunt clenching around nothing, desperate and empty and aching.
“Turn around.”
I turn on shaking legs, and he’s shoving his trousers down, and then his cock springs free—thick and flushed and leaking from the tip—and the size of him makes my stomach flip.
He backs me up until my ass hits the edge of the dresser, and then his hands grip my thighs and lift me onto the wood surface like I weigh nothing. The dresser is cold against my bare ass, and my legs fall open. He steps between them, the blunt hot head of his cock nudging through my folds, smearing himself in the mess he made.
