“Get out.” His voice drops. “Get the fuck out. Now. Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
But I don’t move. Instead, I saunter forward, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. His pheromones are suffocating this close, making my head spin and my knees weak, but I refuse to back down. I reach out and cup him through his open pants, feeling him twitch against my palm.
“You look so cute when you’re angry,” I purr, licking my lips as I look up at him through my lashes.
That does it.
His hand shoots out and wraps around my throat, fingers digging into the sides hard enough to make spots dance in my vision. He lifts me almost off my feet and throws me onto the bed with enough force to make me bounce on the mattress. Before I can even catch my breath, his pheromones crash over me like a tidal wave, so thick and overwhelming that I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only gasp and shudder as they flood my system.
“This time,” he growls, stalking toward the bed like a predator, “you’re not getting the better of me. This time you’re going to learn exactly what happens when you play games with someone like me.”
I try to push myself up on my elbows, try to say something smart and cutting, but another wave of his pheromones hits me and my arms give out. I slump against the silk sheets, panting, my whole body trembling from the sheer force of his dominance pressing down on me.
Suha climbs onto the bed and grabs the front of my shirt, yanking hard. Buttons scatter across the floor, pinging off furniture as the fabric tears. He doesn’t bother trying to pull it off properly, just rips it apart and tosses the ruined pieces aside.My jeans go next, the denim protesting as he hauls them down my legs and throws them somewhere behind him.
He flips me over onto my stomach with one hand between my shoulder blades, pressing down hard enough that I can barely move.
The slap comes fast and unexpected—a brutal crack of his palm connecting with my ass that jolts my entire body. I yelp into the sheets before I can stop myself, muffled and pathetic, my fingers clenching the silk as the sharp sting blossoms outward in waves of heat.
“That,” Suha says through gritted teeth, his voice gravel and venom—“is for fucking running.”
Before I can recover, another slap lands on the opposite cheek, twice as hard, the force reverberating through my bones. My muscles jerk instinctively, but his heavy hand between my shoulder blades presses me deeper into the mattress, his dominance like a lead weight I can’t shake.
“That,” he snarls, “is for making me chase you through half of Seoul.”
I try to push up—shove back, twist for leverage—but his knee lands between my thighs, pinning my legs, leaving me helpless against the onslaught. His palm strikes again, the rhythmicthwacksperfectly timed to blur punishment into something else, the pain twisting deliciously into pleasure until my nerves are strung too tight to tell where one ends and the other begins.
“That’s for tying up my men.”Crack.The impact reverberates through me, hot and satisfying. “For leaving those fucking notes everywhere like it was some goddamn treasure hunt.”Crack.My hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding against the mattress as fire licks up my spine. “For thinking”—crack—“you could just waltz back in here”—crack—“whenever you felt like it.”
Each word drips with frustration, each slap punctuating his anger, and of course, because I’m a masochist with a death wish,my cock stiffens against the bed, my body responding to every hit. Small, bitten-off noises escape my throat. Gasped groans, erratic whimpers that I would never let anyone else hear. But with Suha? Fuck, he makes me weak, makes mesoundweak, and I fucking love it.
He works methodically, alternating cheeks until my skin burns, until the ache builds into a feverish throb, relentless and perfect. I’m trembling, sweat-slick and overheated, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
“Not so fucking cocky now,” he growls, his voice shredded—part anger, part rut, all control barely holding itself together. “Where’s all that attitude? Where’s that smartass mouth?”
I open my mouth to retort with some stupid quip, some half-baked protest, but his palm lands directly over the most tender spot, rocking me forward with a gasp. My entire body locks up, arching off the sheets, but he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t let me catch my breath.
When he finally pauses, my ass throbbing and fever-hot, the sudden absence of pain is worse than the impact itself. My muscles twitching, my skin hypersensitive, every nerve alight.
Then his fingers skim over my abused flesh, soft, almostaffectionate, before digging in. Cruel, gripping the ruined skin hard enough to drag another broken noise from my throat as I writhe beneath him.
“Stay still,” he commands, his pheromones washing over me in another suffocating wave.
He flips me over roughly and I find myself staring up at him, my vision slightly blurry from unshed tears. His eyes are dark with rut, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left, just black hunger staring down at me. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched tight, every muscle in his body tense with barely controlled aggression.
He looks absolutely feral. Dangerous. Like he might actually tear me apart.
It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Suha’s hand disappears from my shoulder. I hear the soft click of a drawer opening beside the bed, the rustle of something being retrieved. When his hand comes back into view, he’s holding a thick black ring of silicone.
He doesn’t say a word. His fingers, still slick with sweat, wrap around the base of my cock, which is already stiff and straining from the spanking and the sheer force of his presence. The cool, flexible silicone slides over my skin, and he fits it snugly around me, trapping my balls in a tight circle with the shaft. He gives it a final, merciless tug to secure it.
My breath snags in my throat. The pressure is instant, a vise-like grip that makes my cock swell further against its confinement, the blood trapped and throbbing. An ache blooms deep in my gut, sharp and needy. I’m already so hard it’s painful, and the ring ensures there’s no relief in sight.
Before I can even process the new sensation, he’s moving again. Leather cuffs appear in his hands, dark and well-worn. He grabs my right wrist, his grip firm and unarguable, and buckles the cuff around it. The cold metal of the D-ring presses into my inner wrist. He pulls my arm up and over my head, attaching the cuff to a heavy-looking O-ring bolted into the ornate headboard. He repeats the process with my left wrist, stretching my arms out above me, pulling the straps tight enough that I have to arch my back slightly off the mattress to avoid straining my shoulders.
I test the restraints instinctively, pulling against them. The leather creaks but doesn’t give an inch. The cuffs are padded on the inside but the buckles are solid, and the headboard feels like it’s carved from a single piece of ancient oak. I’m stretched out, completely exposed, every inch of me available to him.
