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I couldn’t.
It was the single most demoralising, disheartening, distressing thing of my life as his fingers probed, found, and entered.
I jerked.
“Slippery little thing, aren’t ya?” He chuckled. “Seems you rather like the idea. Perhaps we’ll have to fulfil it…once I’ve wrung every cent I can from you.” He licked my cheek. “I’m tempted to make a bid myself. To lay claim to this sweet little cunt.”
His fingers spread me.
I flinched as he speared deeper.
The natural moisture of my body and the desire Henri had conjured utterly condemned me.
I hung in my cuffs as another crack sounded, another fissure, another break deep within.
“Tight, but not a virgin,” Victor whispered, his breath laced with sweet fumes of brandy. “Pity but not unexpected.”
His touch was grotesque.
Repugnant.
Vile.
Two fingers became three.
I clamped down on my tongue.
I choked on my screams.
Crashing, crippling horror crested.
Every organ perished. Every bone shattered. Tears suffocated, threatening to sweep me away in a river of panic.
Please…
Please, stop—
Moments.
I was moments away from—
“Two million in whatever fucking currency you want. Two million to get your motherfucking fingers out of what is mine.”
Silence fell.
Everyone froze.
My watery eyes opened and only saw Henri.
Savage, secretive, sadistic Henri.
His shirt already off and dead by his feet. His loafers gone. Fingers fumbling at his zipper as he wrenched off his shorts and boxers, revealing the same cock I’d felt against me three separate times. An angry red scar marked his otherwise perfect thighs.
He fisted himself as if he cursed the part of his anatomy that’d gotten him into this place.
I saw every tiny detail.
I imprinted his beauty.
