Page 172 of Somno Slave

“Please stop,” I try.

His fingers cup my face, and he drags me close to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against my eyelid, light, almost gentle. But his tongue curls out, catching my lashes, and then before I can stop him, he pulls my eyelid between his lips and sucks the tears away.

I whimper, my body finally obeying my mind. My knees give way, and I try to duck out of the attack, but his fingers suddenly curl their way into my hair. He holds me still.

He shifts back ever so slightly, angling my head so he can soak up my reaction. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Ice drags down my body until I feel sick. I can’t reply.

“Your sleeping body is delicious,” he grins. “but I can’t wait to fuck your waking mind, too.”

I yelp. He squeezes tighter until another tear slips free, only this time he doesn’t taste it, just watches it hungrily.

“I asked you a question, sweet Doctor.” He hums. “Did you miss me?”

I want to lie. I know I should. But Ican’t, the terror sweeps through me.

“Yes,” I hear myself say. As soon as the word leaves my lips, I regret it. I hate myself for responding so obediently to him, but the fear wraps its way around my neck until I’m choking on him.

He softens slightly. “Good.”

His knee drives between my thighs, forcing its way into the space I’m trying so hard to protect.

“No—” It comes out breathless.

His hand tightens on my jaw, the other anchoring me in place as he presses harder, relentless, until the strain burns through my hips. My muscles shake with the effort of fighting him, of trying to keep myself closed, but he’s stronger, heavier, immovable.

Slowly, humiliatingly, my knees are forced apart.

Spread open for him.

For a second I can only feel it—the exposure, the helplessness of it, the way my body has been arranged like it no longer belongs to me. My pulse pounds so hard it makes me dizzy.

He looks down between us, and somehow that feels worse.

“No, please—” I protest.

“Yes,” he interrupts sharply. “I need you. It’s been too long.”

He forces his knee higher, splitting me open around it, his hands already sliding to my hips like he owns the shape of them.

I yelp, sharp and helpless, when the pressure hits exactly where my body betrays me most. The spot that pulses with humiliation, with need, with something I’d rather die than let him see.

He drags me forward, then back, slow at first, forcing the movement, forcing me to feel every second of it.

My breath stutters.

Again.

Back and forth.

My body follows whether I want it to or not, helpless against the rhythm he’s chosen, against the friction that turnseverything hot and unbearable. I’m riding his fucking thigh like something desperate, something pathetic, and the worst part—the part that makes shame burn hotter than anything else—is the pleasure.

Electric enough to make my legs shake.

Wrong. God, so wrong.

And still my body reaches for it, traitorous and needy, answering him before my mind can even form the disgust. I hate it. I hate him. I hate the way my mouth parts on a broken sound I can’t swallow back. And I hate that some ruined part of me wants more.