Page 29 of No One Has To Know

“Oh, angel. It wouldn’t be a punishment if I did everything you asked of me. You’re mine. Nothing is going to stop me from taking everything I want… and you’re going to give it to me.”

“But… but I already did. Twice.”

“You know what they say.” Burns moves back to my pussy. He gives me a long, lazy lick, before telling me, “The third time’s the charm.”

In that case…

Half delirious with pleasure so intense it’s dancing along the edge of being pain, my fingers scrabble against the hood of the cruiser. The rain makes it impossible to get a good hold, but I try anyway as I mumble, “I need—”

“I know exactly what you need,” purrs Burns.

He has one finger in. As I push back against him, he works in a second. Just like when he finger-fucked me, I can pretend it’s something a little thicker, a little sturdier… I can pretend it’shim.

Fuck. He was right. That’s exactly what I needed.

As the latest orgasm slams into me, I let out a weak cry. I press my overheated cheek against the metal of the cruiser’s hood, searching for some relief. I don’t even bother trying to break free of my captor. Burns is playing my body like a goddamn fiddle, ripping every reaction he can out of me.

It was his fingers that did it. To me, penetrative sex—specifically p in v—is the one thing I couldn’t agree to. If I did, it was like telling Burns that he owned every inch of me. Still, the way he lapped at my pussy, nibbling on my clit, dipping his tongue inside of me… I needed more. The two fingers he jammed inside my pussy, stretching me out and giving me something to tighten around, was exactly what I needed to come apart beneath him.

I’m done. Feeble as a kitten, he could get off of his knees, shove his pants down around his ankles, and start fucking me here and now—and I would stay just like this and let him.

But he doesn’t.

With a husky, amused chuckle, Burns bites gently on my inner thigh. When I whimper but don’t react other than that, he chuckles again; this one sounds both satisfied and proud. He rubs his cheek along the back of my thigh, the rain dripping down enough to blunt the rasp of his stubble.

Then, rising up, he reaches around me. I don’t resist at all as he tips me into his arms. Burns has one arm under my naked ass, the other supporting my back. It’s a typical bridal-style carry—naturally—and he takes advantage of the hold to steal a fierce kiss.

I taste myself as he slides his lips against mine. Rain, too, but mainly my musk as he presses harder, wordlessly ordering me to open my mouth and let him in.

And, God help me, I do.

12

ANGELA

Ilet him finger me, and he took one of my cuffs off.

He went down on me, and he fed me a slice of my favorite cake.

I tried to escape, and he made me orgasm out in the rain.

I’m not sure what’s next for us. Considering he leaves me as soon as he carries me downstairs—the last thing I expected from him—I think he’s leaving me to stew in my own thoughts as the next stage of my punishment.

We had breakfast. I never get lunch when he’s at work; no need, since Burns specifically stocked the fridge with my favorites on purpose. I’m wondering if I’ll get dinner or if that’ll be another punishment when I hear the locked door creak open again.

Despite it being his day off, when he comes back down to the basement, he’s in a fresh uniform. He looks as fresh as a freaking daisy, as though he’s ready to head off to work. He’s not, though. He’s just reminding me—as if I could forget for even a second—that he’s a cop, and my jailer.

After my escape attempt, I did figure the second part of my punishment was how he left me all alone. I took the time to take another shower, trading the soaked t-shirt and panties for fresh clothes. The towel I used last night was back in the bathroom. I put my hair up with it until it was dry enough to try to tame the worst of the tangles with my fingers.

He brought my clothes. Still no hairbrush, damn it.

But when Burns comes downstairs, something’s different. As cold as I was out in the rain, he’s even colder. His jaw is firm, his expression emotionless—at least, until he crooks a finger at me and I get a hint of that charming smile of his.

“Come here, Angela.”

Angela. Not ‘angel’.

Yup. I’m still in trouble.

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