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My back arches up and I let out a long-anguished moan. I roll around, my backside sliding in his hands. It’s too much. Too little.God.It’s perfect torture.
Another lick.
And another.
Then his mouth is on me, kissing and mouthing my pussy like he would my lips and . . .fuck.
Fuck.
I try to reach for his hair, wanting to grab at the strands, gain some kind of control, but the ropes won’t allow it.
Shifting his weight, he pulls his lips back and pushes two fingers inside of me. I stare down at him as he works them in and out. His gaze meets mine from between my knees, his lips a glistening smirk. When he makes a show of licking my juices from them, the soft muscles circling his skilled fingers contract and squeeze.Fuck.
“I want to hear you purr,” he says. “And I won’t let you come until you do. I want to see your back curve. Tits jiggle. Hips roll.” I let out a moan. My pelvis lifts on its own accord. “That’s good. Good girl. Give me more. I want your pussy in the shape of my fingers tonight.”
My eyes roll shut as he massages the nerves throbbing within me. It is a battle for dominance. He is without a doubt winning, rubbing me so precisely, the stimulation is sending me out of my mind. My leg jerks as heat boils in my belly and tingles spread to my toes.
“Look at me, baby,” he demands.
I lift my weighted, dazed eyes open to find heated green-blue flames within his. As a dark shadow of possessiveness moves into his eyes, he jolts up to grab my throat. His fingers twist against the pulsing rhythm of my pussy, setting me off completely. “No one can save you from me, baby, because-” He grunts with the onslaught of his fingers, puncturing me with each word as he growls, “You. Are. Mine. Even your breath. Mine. Say. It.”
My world spins as I whimper, “I’m. Yours.”
He leans down and licks inside my panting lips, lightly squeezing the column of my neck, forcing my sounds of tormented bliss to vibrate within his grip - forcing me topurr.
I come hard around his thrusting fingers.
* * *
The night is long, while I slip in and out of a broken slumber, having slept far too long during the day. I lay on my back, arms out wide, still restrained. Bronson’s head is tucked into my neck. He breathes heavily in his sleepy condition. His arms band my center, his leg bend over me so he can fit on the bed.
My misguided fingers twitch with the need to caress his hair, but I can’t, because the crazy fucker tied me to his goddamn bed! I growl, but he is completely out of it, not even stirring. The world is no longer on his shoulders, weighing down his decisions. I look at the gun on the cabinet opposite us, considering my choices. Because they are mine. Not his.
I could pretend. Could feign forgiveness. Get my hands on that gun or the phone and call. . .Perry.
I run that scenario over in my head, bounce it around and feel Perry’s disappointment like a lead weight, even in my own illusion. Feel him coddling me, treating me like a victim.
I’ve now cheated on him.
Twice.
And so he’ll call it rape. He’ll make me feeldirty. . . That is easier than accepting the fact that maybe I didn’t resist with all my heart. That my consent was in every movement I made, every moan, every pulse of my pussy.
I peer down at Bronson in his gentle state. My gaze dances around his tattoos. So many. Overlapping. Colours splashed everywhere.
My eyes snag on the one on his side, the one I refused to let myself look at. A large colourful depiction of Anubis, the jackal-headed warrior, runs from his hip to just under his ribcage. Wings of colour in orange, red, and amber, paint the sun behind him.
It is beautiful.
“So why does he have our Anubis on his torso?”my inner Akila asks.“It’s larger than his Butcher bird tattoo. Larger than the word Butcher on his neck.”
Akila was obsessed with the god. Anubis wasn’t just the God of the undead, but often painted as the guide for lost souls, living and dead. He specialised in helplessness. He took care of the fragile ones after they die.
I exhale on a sigh, wondering what meaning it has to him. Maybe something to do with death? Jimmy Storm and his Family. An Egyptian tattoo could represent me in some way. Maybe? Us?
Then I know.
My stomach contracts.
