Page 181 of Tease Me


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“You’re a sick motherfucker!” I said, losing my steam under the heavy weight of despair. Celt sucker-punched Lynch.

Lynch stumbled backward a little, but his half-smile grew into a full-toothed grin. The goddamn Joker had come to the party. I started to shake again, violently. The ropes grated against my wrists. Sharp webs of pain radiated up my forearms with each attempt to free my hands. I could do nothing but watch and throw out helpless words as Lynch twirled the baton and crouched, ready for the fight. My brother—a strong man, but pummeled and bruised—had little hope against the sadist. As Celt lunged for him, Lynch brought the baton down on his back, to the side of his spine. Celt bent backward and Lynch took the opportunity to shove the end of the baton into Celt’s gut, counteracting his backward fall.

With a heavy thud, Celt’s knees hit the floor.

“I thought you’d be a little more of a challenge, Captain Murray.” Again, Lynch backed off, stood, and waited for Celt to recover.

“All right, I’m ready to taste a little blood,” Lynch drawled and winked at me.

I convulsed with terror.

He closed in on Celt again, this time landing blow after blow. The baton and his fists traded hits, and my brother’s body twitched helplessly like a punching bag until he stood, blood pouring from his nose, a blank expression in his eyes. Then, he fell forward face first.

“NOOOOoooooo!” I screamed, my heart a bass drum in my ears and tears erupting and blazing lava trails down my face.

Lynch tossed the baton onto the bed and stalked toward me. He reached sideways for his wicked knife, his half-lidded eyes and Chucky-like smile trained on me.

On the end of my scream, I couldn’t suck air back into my lungs, couldn’t breathe. The corners of my vision went dark. The ropes around my chest and lap were so tight they seemed to keep my air from flowing and felt as if they were tightening even more. Breathe, breathe, breathe, I chanted to myself, but I couldn’t. I gasped tiny amounts of air as he continued to saunter toward me.

He hadn’t broken a sweat in the one-sided fight. His eyes were dark and hooded with arousal, and his tongue dipped out and swiped his lower lip.

Goddamnit, I needed my fucking lungs to work. I looked toward the door, hoping and praying for anything. Anyone.

But no one came.

When Lynch stopped in front of me, he sank to his knees and slowly placed the knife’s honed edge along my jawline. His wicked chuckle seared through my gut as cold steel bit into my skin.

I flinched backward, and breath finally rushed into my lungs, but I held it inside. I didn’t scream for fear that the knife would slice into my face. The sharpness of the blade pressed just shy of cutting, warming with the constant pressure against my jawline.

“Your creamy skin has to be the prettiest canvas between LA and Phoenix.” His flat eyes roamed down my body. “And I’ve wanted to get my tools on it for a long, long time.”

I held as motionless as I could, still shaking, but trying not to slice myself on the blade the man held it as steadily as a scalpel.

Lynch quirked a brow, his cold businesslike tone creeping back into his voice as he said, “Let’s see, shall we?”

He removed the knife and I flinched, readying to rear back and—

The knife returned, positioned at my throat this time. “Oh, no, let’s not be naughty like that, love. Quiet now.”

He cut the clothes from my body, bit by bit, but did not remove the ropes.

He kept going until I was completely naked but for the four sets of ropes that bound my wrists, my waist to the chair back, my ankles, and my legs to the seat. The motherfucker took his sweet time in removing almost everything from my body. Only tiny strips of material remained where the rope was too tight for it to slide out. And when he was done, Lynch stood back and appraised my body like an artist with a paintbrush, deep in thought. He lifted the hilt of the knife to his chin, his lips pursed and contemplative. I couldn’t imagine what demented and sadistic thoughts ran through his mind, but how he approached me—like I was his pallet—said that he planned to take his time and thoroughly enjoy creating his masterpiece. I knew that look well. The look I used to appraise the curves of a bike’s tank before I made any move with the airbrush.

Tears rolled down my face, off my chin, and dripped onto my exposed breast.

“Let’s reposition you, shall we?” he said at last.

He untied my waist and thighs and lifted me with one arm. I tried to fight, but the knife came to my throat again. When he had me on the bed, he spread my ankles wide and tied one to each of the foot posts. I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me again. It was like I was a magnet for assholes that thought they could take what they wanted from me without asking. Or maybe I just lived in a shitty town where men thought all women were disposable whores. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull my knees together. My hands stayed tied tight behind my back. My shoulders screamed in pain. Adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream eased a bit and prevented much focus on anything but what was coming.

Lynch stood back, appraising the new angles as the sun streaked across my naked body. “That’s the prettiest little cunt I’ve ever seen. I can already picture the beautiful art of blood and cum spread all over your buttery skin. And the scars you’ll wear after? Well, I’m hard just thinking about that.”

He unbuttoned his pants but kept them slung low on his hips. Crawling over the foot of the bed, he straddled me. My heart pounded in my throat. He twirled the knife in his palm. My lungs worked, sucking in a huge halting gasp for air. He brought the knife down just above my left breast, over my heart and began to cut.

A blood-curdling scream ripped from my very soul, through my gut, up my throat, and echoed around the room.

40

Wilde

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