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His mouth roams across my stomach but he doesn’t cut me. Yet. Instead, he grips my hips and rolls me slightly toward him so I’m on my side.
“Have you seen the tat on my stomach?” Lust roughens his voice
It takes a few moments for his words to cut through the haze. I blink my eyes, forcing them to focus on him. He squats down, his head level with mine.
“No,” I say hoarsely. “It’s always either dark or I’m exhausted.”
His mouth quirks with a smug smile. He knows all too well why I’m exhausted. “It’s a number, a two, with ravens spiraling around it.”
I’ve licked the flag and skull across his pec. I’ve sucked on the stud in his nipple. I can’t think what significance a two might have for him.
“It’s inspired by a poem. ‘The Second Coming’ by Yeats. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head. I barely survived the required English classes. I certainly didn’t take any poetry classes.
“Do you think you can last long enough for me to cut a two into your hip?”
I shudder, my knees pulling up toward my chest instinctively. I glance down at my breast to see how bad it looks. Just two thin red lines, as if a cat scratched me. They probably won’t even leave a scar. “I guess it depends on how much of an artist you are, and whether you can make me come again when my legs are tied together.”
Laughing, he leans in to nip my hip. “No artist, just very hungry for another taste of you. I don’t think I’ll have any problem at all making you come again, without touching that sweet pussy once.”
That isn’t exactly what I want to hear. Rolled on my side, I can feel how wet I am. My panties are plastered to me. Even feeling his pinkie finger slide into me would probably be enough to set me off again. I wiggle as close to him as possible, my mouth an inch from his. “Order me. Then I can do anything.”
His fingers dance down my leg and press in the hollow of my knee, finding the pressure point that makes my thigh jerk helplessly. Down my calf to my ankle, another pool of pain I never knew existed. The sole of my foot cramps, adding to the crescendo he builds in me. Standing to lean over me, he trails his hand up my body, lighting the nerves at the base of my spine. Layer by layer, he builds the flames inside me, fueling them with pain that doesn’t leave a mark. Energy pulses through my body, as if he truly is lighting up my nerves like a switchboard.
Twisting my hands, I hear cotton tear. I’m almost free. But I can’t concentrate long enough to pull the strips through the knife pinned to the table. Not with my head rolling around, need rising to a punishing pitch inside me.
“Please,” I whimper. “I need you so bad. Please!”
He squeezes my elbow, grinding his thumb on the bundle of nerves that makes my whole arm throb. “Who do you belong to, kitten?”
“You, Master. Only you.”
“I’m going to cut you, and you’ll find pleasure in it because it pleases me to see you marked as mine. Suffer for me. Bleed for me.”
His thumb digs into my hand, lighting up the last pressure point he taught me that first night. In my mind, I can almost see each blazing bundle of nerves glowing like bonfires.
He leans into me, hard, clamping his shoulder over my waist. His left hand seizes my ankles and pulls them back toward my knees. I squirm against his grip just to enjoy the way he effortlessly holds me still. The tip of the knife sinks into my skin and I buck harder beneath him. It feels like a red-hot brand. He has me trussed up like a cow, forced to accept the mark of its owner.
That probably shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does.
When he adds his mouth to the torment, I lose it. I can’t help but thrash as a brutal climax tears through me. My body remembers every single bite. The glorious press of his jaws. The brilliant bruises he left for days. It remembers and wants more.
He flattens his tongue against me, his teeth scraping, his vicious groans torturing me. I can’t feel the blade, now, not with his mouth on me. Not with every muscle locked down in a rolling, devastating climax that doesn’t end. I scream until I don’t have any voice left.
I’m going to die. Not from his knife. Because I need him too badly.
My legs suddenly swing off the table as the world tilts crazily. His hands dig into my waist, shifting me where he wants me. On my stomach, the table beneath me, I’m finally going to get him inside me. My ankles and wrists are still bound, though I almost managed to tear the strip along the blade pinning the cotton to the table.
He tugs on the strip around my neck, drawing it out to lie beside the one pinning my hands. The second knife slams into the table, making me jump, pinning my head as he pinned my hands.
I hear his zipper and my back automatically arches, lifting my ass for him like a cat in heat. The tearing condom package makes me whimper, trying to hurry him along.
He fists his hand in my hair and draws my head back slightly, letting me feel the cotton tighten on my throat. “I control your breathing now, kitten. I control everything about you.”
Tearing the thin satin of my panties like tissue paper, he bares my ass to him. I lift as much as I can on my tiptoes, straining to make it as easy for him to slide home as possible. His fingers lightly stroke down my crack to my core. “So wet. Fucking hell, you’ll be the death of me yet.”
He parts my outer lips and pushes into me, a long, hard thrust that drives my breath out of me on a hoarse grunt. He grinds me against the table, pushing so deep I can’t breathe. My head falls back and the cotton tightens more around my throat. Dangerous. So dangerous. Yet heady at the same time. I squirm in vain, trying to get my legs apart so I can take him deeper. It feels so strange to be tight-legged against him, rather than wide open and vulnerable.
