Page 158 of The Next Lie

I close my eyes. He withdraws his fingers.

“Eyes open.”

I force them open and find him watching me. Every inch of him is controlled. Every inch of him looks close to snapping.

“Tell me,” he says.

“No.”

He rubs the tip of his fingers against my clit, slick with me. “Then I’ll wait.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

He would. That’s the problem. Deacon Cross is patient enough to ruin people.

I reach for his belt. He lets me. The buckle opens under clumsy fingers. His zipper follows. I shove the fabric down enough to free him, and the sight of him steals the air out of my lungs.

I remember the feel of him before I see the metal.

The piercing.

The bar catches the light when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes once.

Memory hits with embarrassing force. The ceramic sink. The stygian darkness. His voice at my ear and the drag of metal through my body. The way he made me beg.

His gaze sharpens as he watches me remember.

“There,” he murmurs.

I swallow. “Don’t say there.”

“You remember.”

“I remember wanting to murder you.”

“You remember wanting to come. Just like you do now.”

My face burns. Deacon steps between my thighs. His cock slides through my folds, slow, wet, deliberate. The metal bar drags over my clit with one pass, and I jerk so hard my hands slip against the polished wood.

He catches my hip.

“Hold still.”

“Fuck you.”

“That is the plan.”

He does it again. Slower. My breath breaks.

The piercing makes every pass sharper, dirtier, impossible to ignore. My body chases it despite my best effort. I tilt my hips, and he stills immediately.

“No…when I say.”

I make a keening sound that should humiliate me but doesn’t. Humiliation requires attention and every bit of mine is fixed on the dick gliding with excruciating slowness in and out of my pussy right now.

“Deacon.”