There are so many sensations—the leather binding my wrists and ankles, the taut strings of my lingerie, the cool air hitting my most sensitive parts, the subtle jolts of electricity and the coarse itch of it grazing my skin. Axel’s fingers and hushed groans.
And the darkness keeps me shrouded in it all.
“Oh my,” I pant, rocking my hips into his hand to increase the friction. “I’m so … oh God, I’m so close already.”
Another zap to the other nipple and an untethered whimper from me.
“Breathtaking.” His timbre is rough and sensual, full of savage yearnings and reverence. “You should see them, mesmerized by you. An entire club of people, rooting for their queen to come for me.”
I nearly forgot we were being watched. But at the mention, the soupy air swells with longings I was never safe to express. My hips buck with a plea as I grow wetter and more ravenous, eager for more.
And Axel delivers.
More pumps. More swirls. More zaps.
Until I’m shaking and gasping for breath. My limbs rebel against the restraints. Pressure builds in my core and licks up my spine. And silver streaks flit behind my lids, like a voyage of celestial awe.
My cells and veins and muscles coil tighter, winding me up for the flight. Liberated and levitating in a euphoric haze.
Bound and free. Undercover to seen.
Alone to chosen.
And if that wasn’t enough, a rumble of satisfaction thunders from Axel’s chest. “A goddamn masterpiece. I’m so proud that you’re mine.”
His declaration unlocks so many twisted notions inside me. I’ve been a ghost since I was nine, clinging to the shadows with a name that wasn’t my own and memories I wasn’t permitted to carry. To the world, I was invisible. But to the Noire king, I’m worthy to not only share his bed, but to be the lover, the woman, the wife he boasts about.
The queen he claims.
His presence retreats, the lights beam a tad brighter from the seam of the blindfold, and there is a faint hum of mutterings beyond the glass. Though I’m still dangling from a blissful cliff, I remember to punch my clicker.
“One.” He chuckles. “Very good.”
The strap tethering one of my bra cups is sliced, my entire breast bouncing and full and bared. A hoopla of aahs hits my ears.
And then he’s on me. His lips and tongue and teeth and fingers. A vibrator is shoved into my pussy, turned to a warped speed that catapults me from that already-elevated rapturous suspension to a realm of blurry ecstasy. It’s been less than a minute since I came, and I’m quaking, on the verge of a magnificent precipice. When he bites the slope of my neck for a distracting prickle, a jolt of frenzied current whizzes my clit.
It hurts and emboldens. Like a slap that unleashes years of pent-up rhapsodies.
I shudder and scream and mumble nonsensical pleas as I soar through another climax. It hits me like a bolt of lightning—this one metaphorical. But still, my back bows, my hips writhe to deepen the dildo, and my core throbs with excruciating elation.
Tense and loose and pain and pleasure.
Blindness to anything that isn’t stars and flutters and the man who bestows it all.
Click. Two.
Another strap on my lingerie is sliced. The other breast falls to freedom.
And a sheen of sweat glazes my skin.
My limbs are lead. My lungs are empty. My heart is a battering ram.
But Axel is merciless.
He dusts some sticky strands of my hair away from my face, brushing his lips against mine, but withholding a kiss—perhaps to keep his wits about him. “You’re doing so good, darling, seizing what’s yours. You’ve got a few more in you. This time, if you need to stop, you’ll drop the counter. Repeat it back to me.”
My palm grips the metal clicker tighter. “I’ll drop the counter if I need to stop.”
