“Say the word, then. I’ll gladly get on my knees for you. You want control, come and take it from me. Or, you can do as I say, and let yourself be whoever you want. The choice is yours.”
Choice.That’s what this is: a decision for me to make.
Am I his queen?
Or am I his whore?
“I want you, Poppy. No matter who you choose to be.”
Lifting my chin, I remain silent.
Brontë grins, his bloodstained fingers leaving sinfully red smudges on the chair as he grips the arms. “Light the cigar.”
I pluck the roll from my ear and light it with a nearby candle. I bring it to my lips—
“Did I tell you to smoke it?”
I lower the roll.
“Mhm. Spread those succulent thighs for me.”
My legs separate. His shaded gaze dips to the sliver of flesh his blood arrow points toward.
“Wider.”
I lean back on the heels of my palms, stretching my lower limbs until they ache.
“Bonne fille.Now, touch yourself.”
My left hand—
“With the cigar.”
My right hand travels the crease of my thigh. Smoke spirals from the cigar in a veil of gray. I slip my fingers through my seam once, twice before delving two digits knuckle-deep and pushing the warm roll of tobacco into my opening, the cap first. A gasp rushes out of me as heat scorches me from the inside and smoke puffs from my pussy.
His chuckle reverberates through the floorboards. “There she is.”
Flames lick up my spine as I stroke my innermost walls. My back bows in time with a long moan—
“Enough.”
I stop.
“Bring it here.”
I stand—
“No.” He points to the floor. “Crawl.”
I pinch the cigar between my teeth and lower onto the floor. He drinks me in, a king watching his mistress submit herself to him as he lounges on his throne. When I reach him, I sit back on my heels and proffer the cigar.
“Eyes on me, Poppy.” Brontë’s warm fingers curl under my chin, tipping my face up. “You bow to no one,ma reine.Not even me.” An unbidden tear slithers down my cheek, and he dips to steal it with his tongue. “No more of these until I’m buried so deep inside you, you’re choking on myname.”
I nod as he takes the cigar and drags, the cherry flaring red. The sight of my blood smeared on his fingers and lips melts my core to magma.
Brontë wraps his hand around my throat. “Belt.”
Unbuckling the clasp, I pull the leather free. He takes it, replacing his hand with the belt and cinching it tight.
