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And those words…coming from that mouth…send me right over the fucking edge. I grip the head of my cock and squeeze, biting out a curse as I throb from the inside out. I imagine grabbing my pocketknife and slitting her dress down the middle. Tearing it from her body. Strapping her to the St. Andrew’s cross in the corner and hearing the sounds I know she’s capable of making—
But I push that craving down into my gut. Shut it off. She’s not there yet. And she may never be. Whoever gave her that scar on her collarbone stole something sacred from her.
It’s going to take more than a hot face-fuck to crumble her walls. And I may be greedy, I may be a glutton, but I’m still patient.
I want it all.
Exercising that patience now, I step closer to her as I swipe the tip of my finger over the head of my cock. Then bracing one hand beside her on the bench, I lower myself, bringing my finger close to her mouth.
Her eyes drag over my face, flicking down to my slick finger. She parts her lips, and I rub the pad over her bottom lip. Her tongue snakes out to taste me, and a sharp hiss slips past my gritted teeth.
She sucks my finger into her mouth, sampling the taste of us combined, and I’m envious. I want so badly to pull my finger away and steal a kiss; taste us on her lips. Only I’m torn over her reaction to such a bold move and missing the feel of her sultry tongue sliding over my finger.
I decide I’ve been enough of a masochist for one night—there’s only so much torture I can bear—and slowly draw my finger away. I take one quick taste for myself, popping my finger into my mouth, and then say, “Now that you’re sated, we can start our sessions.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Tonight?”
I smile. “As much as I want to bind you right now…come back tomorrow. Rest first. Make sure you soak your muscles so you’re nice and limber, then come back to me.”
The corner of her mouth kicks up. “I thought I was the one giving the orders?”
Oh, how I want to punish that smart mouth. Nip those soft lips and bite that tongue. Pressing my forehead against hers, needing to inhale the sweetness of her, I whisper, “When you finally understand everything, you’ll know just how much power you truly have over me.”
With that, I straighten and begin to untie her scarf.
One admission is enough for tonight.
11
Tracers
Sadie
The reality of my predicament doesn’t fully sink in until I’m seated behind my desk¸ the printed profile of the UNSUB spread out before me.
Colton Reed, a bonda
ge rigger from a BDSM club, went down on me last night. In his room of torture devices and ropes. With my scar—that I show no one—on full display.
You’re being a bad girl again, I see. My dirty girl.
I shake the vile voice from my head and gather together the scattered sheets on my desk.
I’m embarrassed to admit, even to myself, how long it’s been since I’ve been with a man. I should feel ashamed of that, more so, than the fact that I was with Colton. Being with a man is normal. At my age, hell, it’s expected. And last night, we didn’t do anything—really—that verged on kink. It was vanilla compared to most scenes I’ve witnessed in the club.
Even so, Colton’s touch thoroughly shattered me—I can’t deny that. I can still feel his rough palms on my skin…his soft lips tenderly caressing, tasting…his taut muscles, hard and flexed, pressed against my thighs.
And what’s more, I’m hungry to feel him all over again.
It’s just the time between that’s shocking; I understand this. I haven’t thought of Isaiah in years. Only it’s impossible not to rewind to my last physical relationship—in my junior year of college—and compare. And cringe.
Has it really been that long?
Isaiah was the closest thing to love and understanding I’ve ever known, and not even he could beat back the darkness forever. In the end, it broke us. The fights, the accusations, the mistrust…the jealousy. And so much anger. I can still picture his face, striking even with its furious, hard lines, right before mine—his hot breath searing my cheeks as he shouted and I tried to turn away from him…
I always made him so angry.
It didn’t help that I was a psych major. Who psychoanalyzed him, over and over, no matter how hard he tried to convince me I was worthy of love.
