Page 112

So deep, I finally cry out and tip my head back.

In and out, he pumps the hilt of the blade, the ridges of its ornate carving adding just enough texture to steal my breath. The sloppy, wet suction with each glide is the humiliating soundtrack to my body’s worst act of treason, as he fucks me with the object.

The sound of groaning draws my attention down to where he pulls the knife out of me, and tosses it aside. “Why? Why do you have to be so fucking maddening?”

He tears away my shorts and panties, but at this point, I feel intoxicated. Drunk with lust. The man hasn’t hurt me once in all of this, and something, I don’t even know what it is, tells me he can’t.

He won’t.

Falling to his knees, he stares down at me with reverence, eyes shimmering with what looks like appreciation. “I’ve got an envie for you, chère.”

Fingers dig into my thighs, pushing them wider, and a masculine sound of satisfaction rumbles in his chest. Warm breath dances over my skin. The second he drags his tongue across my slit, my stomach curls into itself, toes digging into the dirt.

No one has ever gone down on me before. Ever. I’ve had fingers jabbed carelessly inside of me in haste, but never in my life has a man taken any interest in my pleasure. What would ordinarily be embarrassment at the thought of his mouth on my most sensitive flesh, is stripped away by the fact that my hands are literally tied. I pull myself against the bindings, hands swelling with the pressure of my tightly clasped fists.

Once again, I find a strange freedom in being restrained.

The flicking of his tongue is nothing like the blade’s hilt. Warmer, wetter, and far more pliable. The sensation of that wicked little organ sends a flutter straight to my stomach. An ache inside of me begs to be filled, and I roll my head against the rough branch, desperate. Hungry. Restless.

Raw and exposed.

Filthy for the things I suddenly crave. Things I’ve not craved before, like being ravished and torn apart by the hands that hold me steady for his devouring.

I allow myself to fall into the descent of this untrodden darkness, like Alice falling into Wonderland. I surrender myself to this man, this virile creature, and his skilled tongue and lips and fingers that seem to share secrets with my untapped fantasies.

Passion and fervency come alive in the growls and the digging of his fingers that hold me with such possession, reminding me of an animal guarding his last meal.

One long suck of my clit has my hips lifting up toward the source of my torment, and I cry out at the inexplicably gratifying tug deep inside my womb.

I’ve never experienced something so utterly consuming yet despicably obscene at the same time. A delicious perversion that will forever sear itself into my memories.

Assuming I’m still alive tomorrow, I’ll probably cry over the fact that I let a crazed psychopath eat me out in the middle of the woods, but for now, all I want to do is come.

The dark treetops loom overhead, like sentinels watching, as he feasts on me like a starving animal. A wolf. Staring down my body shows his face buried between my legs, blood smeared across his cheeks and inside my thighs, as if he’s truly making a meal of me.

And how fucking sick is it that I have to clench against another surge of arousal, feeding him more of the carnal nectar that he laps up with his wickedly skilled tongue.

I’m surely going to hell for this.

Two fingers push up inside of me, pumping faster than his languid tonguing, and I cry out, my voice echoing all around me in mocking.

I’m hot, so fucking hot, I could melt right here.

Fingers suctioning in and out of me in a wet glide, he moans into me, face buried in my soaked folds. A tremble vibrates in my thighs as I struggle to hold them open, at the same time desperate to clench them. Tight knots wind deep in my womb, the threat of climax building, cramping my muscles in a bubbly cauldron of ecstasy. Short panting breaths, punctuated by the agonized mewling sounds that escape me, fail to deliver enough oxygen, and I’m dizzy, flush and high on the pleasure.

My muscles tighten.

Tighter.

Oh, God, so tight, my thighs are shaking now. The branch wobbles and shudders beneath me, goading my climax.

“Thierry! Oh, God, Thierry!”

I bring them together, clamping my knees around his head, and an explosion bursts behind my eyes on a rush of hot tingles. I cry out, practically sobbing my orgasm. Squirming and writhing against the rough texture of his face, I push my hips upward, begging him to lap every drop.

My whole body turns soft, weak and limp, draped over the branch now wet with my release.

Shame settles deep inside of me, smothering the lingering intoxication with the cold, black tincture of regret.