Perhaps that sort of depravity is only preserved for my particular brand of fucked up.
I trail my hand between her legs, using my fingers to spread her further as I shove my cock deep . I don’t so much as graze her clit for a few hard thrusts, swirling my middle digit around her slick, pouty nub before her body locks up. Cunt tightening like a clenched fist, she releases a melody of short, high-pitched wails every time I hammer into her.
It’s those sounds that knock me over my own edge and send a vicious, ravenous zap straight down the length of me.
I pull out, push her onto the mattress, and pump my release all over her bare, flushed ass, painting it in ropes of white.
I’m still coming down as the shame hits like a punch to the gut. That deep, disgusted sort that always makes me want to hurl.
Every fucking time.
I snatch my pants off the chipped bedpost and step into them, whipping them up and fastening the buttons before I roll the woman—can’t remember her name, though I doubt I bothered to ask—onto her side.
She’s smiling at me, her dreamy stare betraying only small slits of her sea-green eyes. I unbind her wrists, toss the length of rope on the bed, then dash the hair out of my face and spin toward the buffet lining the back wall.
“Your coin is on the nightstand,” I mutter, uncorking the bottle with a brutal pop.
Shuffling sounds ensue—her gathering herself and slipping off the bed. The soft pad of her bare feet against the rough, wooden floorboards before thetinkof coins being slid off the nightstand.
More shuffling, then, “High Master.”
Her voice is more demure now that I’m not balls deep inside her, perhaps because she’s come down from her own high and is now painfully aware of our audience. I don’t doubt she’s curtseying, though it seems a bit odd after he just watched her come all over my cock.
More hurried footsteps, then the door snicks shut.
Silence.
The sort that grates against your bones and makes your heart race.
I fill my glass with a glug of whiskey that empties the bottle, then toss it back with a sharp hiss as it bites a blazing trail down my throat.
I slam the glass back on the buffet. “What do you want, Rhordyn?”
“You don’t want to wash your hands before we chat?”
My smile is wolfish. “She was pretty clean, actually.”
He releases a low grunt. “I need you to come home.”
Wearing a tight frown, I turn a little, passing him a sideways glance.
“Castle Noir,” he clarifies, stare unwavering.
“Hard pass. You know I hate that fucking place.”
Gripping the empty bottle by the neck, I stride toward the door, grab the brass handle, and pull it open. I step out into the dingy hallway that’s lit like the rooms in this shithole—with only a few candelabras bolted to the walls, each with short, stumpy candles spilling long tears of wax over the edge of the drip pans.
I’m three steps down the runner that smells too damp not to be a health risk before Rhordyn’s voice batters me from behind.
“I have a ward. A child no older than three. The only survivor of a Vruk attack that took her entire family.”
The words bolt me in place. Bolt my heart to the back of its cage.
Ahead, one of the doors creaks open, and a woman pops her head out, eyes widening as she takes in the presence that’s now an electric force at my back.
Her face blanches, and she shuts the door so fast I can already picture the look on Rhordyn’s face before I even turn.
Deadly.
