Page 96 of Damsel in Disguise

I give in—grinding harder, pushing deeper, taking more.

The world narrows to sensation—to the drag, the pressure, the pain, the relentless friction against my clit—and then it snaps.

Everything goes black.

Before my brain can process what the feeling is about, it completely stops functioning.

My lungs forget how to work, my throat locking around a sound that never quite makes it out. Then I feel my back arch violently like a strained bow, chest thrusting forward as something crashes through me, tearing me apart from the inside.

I must’ve blacked out. I can’t see. I can’t even breathe. But I can feel everything at once, and I want this to last forever.

Every pulse, every violent tremor wracks through me, every uncontrollable spasm drags my hips into it again and again as if my body refuses to let it end.

“Al—Alastor…” I choke out, the name slipping wrong on my tongue.

I force my eyes open just enough to look at him.

For a split second, there’s shock in his gaze.

It takes me a heartbeat too long to understand why—until it hits me. Not only did I say his name, but I said it wrong.

I don’t get the chance to fix it. It’s gone just as quickly as it appeared and is replaced by something far more dangerously close to burning desire.

He waits till I come down from the high and fall back, my whole body going slack with rapid panting.

Only then does he loosen his grip from my throat and gently pulls his hand away—too gentle for the things that just happened—taking mine with it, still bound, still trembling from the aftershocks.

And then he brings it to his mouth.

My breath stutters from what I’m about to see.

His tongue slides out, licking along the pen first. Cleaning it. Tasting it. Tasting me.

His eyes close for a fraction of a second, like he’s savoring the forbidden fruit.

They open again and lock onto mine. His lips wrap around the pen, sealing, sucking it out inch by inch with an obscene level of controlled patience.

I can’t look away. I don’t want to.

Even when it slips free, his tongue doesn’t stop.

It flattens against my hand next—the heat of his tongue burns against my skin. He drags it slowly over my skin, over every place still wet and glistening from what he just forced out of me.

He replaces it—my slickness—with his saliva, spreading it, claiming it in a way that feels far too intimate for what we just did.

Once he’s done, he grips the pen between his teeth and pulls it away, never breaking eye contact. Not even to blink.

Then he straightens and rises to his full height like nothing just happened.

But there’s no hiding it.

The tension in his body. The tightness in his shoulders. And the very obvious strain in front of his pants, one that’s too obvious to go unnoticed by anyone.

He doesn’t even try to conceal it.

Just when I’m certain he’s going to ruin me just like last night, Alistair chuckles and steps backward.

Before my mind can fully process what is happening, he’s already standing by the door, adjusting his cuff in unhurried movements.