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Slowly, I raise my eyes up to him, finding his gaze full of quiet surprise. In answer to his question, I squeeze him at the root and wrap my lips around the head, sucking it inside my mouth before popping it out again only to run my tongue along his shaft from balls to tip. I worship him with my mouth, my head bobbing back and forth, taking him in gradually until I feel him at the back of my throat.
I reach between his legs and splay my hand over his concrete ass, feeling his impossibly hard buttocks clench as I take him to his balls. Tears swell in my eyes from the pressure, his cock pushing well past my gag reflex.
“Fuck, Sirenna,” he groans, trying to pull back, but I don’t let him. I clamp my teeth on his cock, making his thighs flex mid-movement.
“Please,” he says, and his tone makes me stop. “Not like this,” he whispers.
I let him slide out of my mouth and sit back on my heels, feeling a bit ashamed and expecting him to tuck back in. But he only hitches his pants up enough so he can walk to the door, and reach for something resting against the wall next to the doorframe on the other side. He walks back with what appears to be an iron neck shackle, a chain attached to it.
I watch Zayne fasten the shackle to a pipe by the wall, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, especially when he lowers himself down to his knees. He resembles a god so powerful I expect the floor to crack under him when he hits it.
“Use me, Sirenna.” He holds the shackle in his hand like an offering, his voice the low rumble of a deity. “Do it as viciously as I did it the first time.”
“You didn’t use me,” I breathe, slowly coming up to my feet. “You know damn well that’s not what happened between us. None of it was about us using each other, not even the first time.”
But the powerful young god stares at me with eyes full of need. There’s an urgency to it, a pleading, despite the power in his gaze, that tears at my heart.
“Please, Zayne,” I whisper. My heart is in pieces in my chest, and yet heat spreads into my core, arousal staining my panties.
Zayne’s nostrils flare as if he can smell it, and it drives him wild.
“Put the shackle on me, Sirenna,” he growls, a sound I’m sure would shake the ground if he’d let it. “I don’t know how much longer I can control myself. You need to leash the beast.”
Even though he’s on his knees, everything about him is dangerous, commanding. I shuffle toward him, not wanting to obey and yet craving to.
“Take my face the way you did that bastard’s at The Rite. Make me worship you like a slave.” His eyes darken with barely restrained hunger.
My fingers close around the shackle. I fasten it around his neck, the clang echoing against the walls as the lock snaps into place.
“Ah, I’ve been dreaming of this for so long,” he rasps.
***
Zayne
MY WILD FLAME DOESN’T understand, but this is the only way I’ll be healed. It’s what the beast inside has been craving since I saw her at The Rite, it’s what will satisfy it and send it into hibernation. She wants the boy she once loved to come back to life but, for that, the beast needs to be silenced.
With the shackle now secured around my neck, I take the lid off the fire crackling in my gut. I went for the neck shackle because handcuffs would have been useless. She’s the only woman in the world who can make me lose my mind, and when that happens, I lose it so thoroughly that I would rip myself away from the pipe and fuck her like a barbarian right here on the concrete floor.
Then I’d chain her to the pipe and abuse her mouth, then her pussy and then her ass in an attempt to force myself into her very soul. But that would mean the beast has won. And I can’t let the beast win, or it will be only a matter of time until I lose her. I can’t subject her to the onslaught of jealousy, possession and continuous monitoring that I’d need in order to feel that she’s mine. Even if she does convince me that she’s with me of her own accord, it’ll only last so long until I start doubting it.
But if she takes me here, if she soothes the beast in the same place where it was born out of pain, there is a chance that she might get back the boy she once loved.
Even if it's a very small chance.
She wipes her hands on the sides of her hoodie, not sure how to go about this.
“It’s hard without the, you know–” she tucks a loose strand of pin-straight, white-blonde hair behind her ear, “–without the alcohol.”
I grin up at her as she realizes she hasn’t touched a drink in a weeks. She replaced it with another drug–fuckery with me.
“If you’d had a drink,” I rasp, “what would be the first thing you’d do?”
She ponders, her head slowly tilting to the side.
“I’d take a chair and just watch you for a while,” she says. “I’d enjoy the sight until I’m tipsy enough, all my inhibitions down. And then...” She slows down as she gives into her imagination. “Then I’d give you a show, watching your frustration grow for being unable to touch me.”
I cock an eyebrow devilishly, just the way she likes it. “A show?”
