“Fuck,” I choke, falling forward. I clutch Grace desperately, holding her limp body to me like a lifeline. “Now, you’re really mine.” I place a tender kiss on her shoulder as I rub my palm over her belly. “You might be getting pregnant right now, angel. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“No… it’s fucking not.”
Grace tries and fails to wiggle off my cock. I chuckle darkly, holding her in place so my softening cock doesn’t have a chance to slip out of her pussy.
“You’re sick.” Her skin shudders as my cock jumps, beginning to harden inside her once more. “Oh my God… there’s no way.”
I lean forward, licking the shell of her ear as my fingertips dig into her skin. “Yes, there is.”
I kiss the racing pulse point on the side of her neck, breathing in deep, getting high on her scent. My balls tighten, and my cock throbs, now fully erect, ready to fill her again.
“I’m getting you pregnant,” I whisper. “Whether you’re ready or not.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
GRACE
2 weeks later…
Every day is the same. I wake up at some unknown hour on an unknown day, cold, hungry, and alone—but notreallyalone.
He’s always watching, always spying through those cameras of his. As soon as he sees my eyes open, I have exactly ten minutes before Seven walks through the door holding a tray of food. After he hand-feeds me, he’ll have me suck his fingers clean, and then he’ll give me my first drink of the morning.
At least, I assume it’s morning. There’s no way to tell without windows in the room. The only way for me to ascertain the general time of day is by the type of food he brings me—but for all I know, he could be giving me pancakes for dinner, and I’d be none the wiser.
Every one of my actions is done under his strict supervision. He feeds me, bathes me, grooms me, breeds me, and on good days, he lets me come.
Whenever I act out, he punishes me. Normally, it’s a small jolt of the shock collar, but other times, when he’s feelingparticularly cruel, he’ll stuff my holes full of toys and edge me until my body is screaming for release, then leave me aching.
There’s some sick part of me that likes it, craves the humiliation and the pleasure that comes with it. I’ve never felt so frightened, so alive, and the warring emotions are driving me mad. I don't really knowwhatI’d do if Seven let me out of my cage. Would I fight him? Beg him to touch me? I wish I knew, but there’s no way to know for sure until he does it.
I’m completely dependent on him now, and I know that’s just how he likes it. The only problem is I’m beginning to enjoy it, too.
A few minutes later, Seven comes into the room, holding a tray of stuffed French toast. It’s piled high with fruit, whipped cream, and syrup, and my stomach groans at the heavenly smell wafting from the plate. At first, I tried to resist eating what he made me, but he kept showing up with my favorite dishes day after day, and eventually I broke.
Half of what makes this so hard is how…sweethe’s being about it. Yes, he lied to me for weeks, kidnapped me, and is keeping me locked in a cage, but he also washes my hair with my favorite shampoo, cooks my favorite meals, and gives me the most mind-shattering, toe-curling orgasms I’ve ever experienced.
It’s all so fucked up.
Seven crouches in front of the cage, his face spreading into a happy smile as he takes me in. “Hello, angel. How did you sleep?”
I gaze up at him, my core heating at the dark glint in his eyes. “It was okay… A little cramped…”
“Hmm.” He tilts his head. “Maybe tonight, I’ll let you sleep in the bed with me. How does that sound?”
Despite how Ishouldfeel, a little thrill goes through me at the mention of sleeping in a real bed with Seven. “Really?”
“Really.” His eyes spark with desire.
His gaze falls to my mouth as he unlocks the feeding slot, pulling the door wide so he can fit his hand through. He takes a small piece of the French toast between his fingers and guides the bite toward my mouth. Too hungry to protest, I eat the offering eagerly. When the plate is empty, Seven pushes his fingertips against my lips, prompting me to open my mouth so he can slip them inside.
“Suck.” His voice is low and gravelly, sending shivers down my spine.
I do as he says, keeping eye contact with him as I clean his hands of the sticky syrup.
“Good girl.” He tenderly brushes my hair behind my ear. “Tea?”
I nod, my mouth parched after all the sugar. He pours a little into his cupped hand, passing it through the bars and allowing me to lap it up from his palm—something else I’ve gotten used to over the past few weeks.
