“Can you breathe?”
I nod again. He yanks the belt tighter.
Gasping for air, I claw at the strap.
“This doesn’t come loose,” he growls, “until my cock is filling your pretty little throat.”
I nearly rip his pants to free his stiff dick. I have half a second to marvel at the nine-inch map of delicate skin and thick veins on his broad length before I’m taking him in like oxygen. The belt loosens as I swallow him whole and fist what I can’t take in.
A curse hisses between his teeth. His fingers curl into my hair as I suckle his crown and pump his length. “You are absolute nirvana, Poppy.”
I moan around him, my eyes stinging with the effort not to gag. He angles me deeper, hips thrusting. It’s swift, punishing, and leaves me gagging anyway. He’s literally fucking my skull, and I can’t get—
“Enough,” he barks, releasing me.
He flings the belt aside, startling me. I jolt, clinging to his shirt.
He bares his teeth, snarling smoke. “Down,Petit Diable.Or I fuck that tight little ass all night and stitch you up in the morning.”
Huffing, I sink onto my heels.
Brontë reaches between his shoulder blades and pulls his shirt. Then he commands me to take off the rest. It should be impossible, his beauty. His entire body is ink and muscle and the power of a warrior turned god, and he’s allmine.
I pepper kisses down the length of the sword tattooed on his thigh, going no farther than the edge of its broken tip before he’s growling at me to back off. My insides squeeze in response. Wet warmth slithers down my thighs. I brace an arm around my middle, wincing through the cramp.
From my secret stash hidden in the coffee table beside him, Brontë pulls a bulbous plug shaped and textured like a dragon egg. “Spit.”
I let saliva drizzle from my tongue onto the toy.
“Turn around.”
When I do, he grips my hips and lifts my ass, guiding my legs onto the seat to frame him. My forearms are on the floor, my most intimate parts bare to him like a buffet. His hot exhales scorch my skin.
“Fucking ambrosia.”
Then he drags his tongue from my slit to my ass, smearing warm blood and thick saliva all the way up my crack. My hips jerk, and he eases the plug into me with a rumbling chuckle.
“There’s nothing quite like seeing the perfect princess turn into such a good little whore. Ready for your reward?”
“Mhm,” is all I can manage as he grinds his swollen cock against my belly.
Brontë grabs my nape like it’s scruff and hauls me up onto his lap. My spine is flush with his torso, his cock a spear against my stomach. Snatching my butterfly knife from the coffee table, he scrapes the colorful blade over my throat as the cherry of his cigar flares as bright as a flame in my periphery.
“Tell me what you want,mon amour.”
Mon amour.I know what that means:my love.
All I hear is the rush of blood in my ears. A single arrow shoots straight through my heart. Something within me splinters and splits into a crevice.
I slip and fall right in, tumbling all the way down to the graveyard of my soul. Freeing the old and buried parts of me from their coffins: the suffering, the heartache, the fury. They all claw to the surface, demanding to be felt.
And I feel themall.
The tears deluge, and they don’t stop.
“Poppy.”Brontë palms my cheek.“What did I say about these?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing his scent into my lungs and wishing I could hold it there forever. “It fuckinghurts.”
