Page 122 of What We Burn

He tears his mouth from mine and sits back on his heels.

“Safe word.”

The command comes out ragged.

“Hangmen,” I breathe.

“Good.”

His hand cracks across my breast.

I cry out—more from the shock than the pain, though the sting blooms fast, hot and bright, my nipple tightening in the aftermath of it. Eli’s gaze doesn’t flicker.

He does it again, on the other side, then drags my nipples between his fingers, twisting each until I cry out again. The rope and his weight and the sharp, teasing pain set off something inside me—a flood, a shudder, a need to be even more open, even more bared. He slides his hand down and slaps my pussy, a perfect, stinging hit across my wetness that makes me arch and try to writhe away, but I’m pinned, every inch of movement tightening the bonds.

“Stay still,” he commands, shifting down my body to spread me open with both hands.

He lowers his mouth to me.

The first touch of his tongue is feather-light. Then he’s there in full—licking and sucking.

He doesn’t build up slow. He drives his tongue hard and deep, lapping at me audibly, the way only pissed-off men can do and still make you melt.

His hands lock to my hips, holding me open so I can’t twist away, can’t do anything but take what he’s giving. The rope scrapes my wrists, the headboard creaks against the strain, and I have to bite my tongue not to scream at the first sharp spike of pleasure.

His tongue drives in, curling just right, and my whole body bows up enough to strain the ropes. Then he pulls back, cracking his palm across my cunt, sharp and sudden. The sting cuts hot through the slick heat.

“Fuck you,” I snarl, voice shaking with want and fury. “Finish the job or go jack off in the corner where you belong.”

Eli’s eyes flare, dark and wild. “You’re not the one in control, little savage. Unless you want to use your safe word.”

I glare at him. When I don’t answer, he climbs up my body, knees bracketing my ribs, weight pinning me flat to the mattress. He makes a show of opening his jeans, shoving them past his hips and pulling his cock out. It’s thick and flushed, and he wraps one broad hand around it, stroking in hard, deliberate pulls right over my face. I can smell him, see the head swell and glisten with every pass of his fist.

“Open,” he orders, low and rough, the command scraping down my spine.

I press my lips together, defiant even as my pulse hammers between my thighs. He doesn’t ask twice. His free hand grips my jaw, thumb pressing in until my mouth parts, and he keeps working himself above me, breath ragged, hips rocking into the circle of his fingers.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

I do. I watch the tension coil through his stomach, the way his jaw locks, the ink on his ribs shifting with every breath. His strokes turn frantic, breathing ragged. Then he’s coming in thick, hot pulses across my tongue, my lips, one stripe catching my cheek. He holds my mouth open through it, making sure every drop lands where he wants, and the taste of him floods in, bitter and heady and exactly what I demanded by pushing this far.

He stays there a moment, breathing hard, thumb stroking once over my lower lip like he’s deciding whether to let me close. I swallow what I can, defiant heat still crackling in my chest, and the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile he doesn’t want to give.

“Swallow,” he says quietly, gentling his fingers at my jaw.

I do. Slow. Deliberate. Then I bare my teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile.

His laugh is short, broken. “You missed some.” He wipes the mess from my cheek with his thumb and feeds it back between my lips, watching me suck it clean.

“Happy now?”

Eli leans down until his mouth brushes mine, tasting himself on my tongue. “Not even close.”

His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back until I feel the stretch in my neck, the choker pressing against my throat. His mouth is at my ear.

“You want more?”

“Fuck you.”