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The last time he heard sounds of sex, it was rape. Gang rape. Of a child.
My pleasure sounds must be different, but he’s traumatized.
So I nod.
Even though I know it’s going to be hard.
“Do you want me to gag you?”
My mouth trembles at the thought, and I want to say no because I want him to kiss me, but also, I know I won’t be able to stop myself from moaning.
Now that I think about it, the reason he woke up last night was because I whimpered.
Fuck.
“O-Okay.”
It’s a concession I didn’t expect to have to make. I already know it’s going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever agreed to do.
But he releases a relieved breath, rasping, “Thank you.”
When he clambers off the bed, I see the shirt he’s wearing is soaked through once more. I don’t understand what he does to make himself bleed so heavily. I’ve seen things during my research. Watched a lot of BDSM porn for a book I was writing—the skin never breaks that much.
I vow to destroy the barb-laced whip he uses on himself because I fear that even with me at his side, he’ll never not be able to self-harm.
With his back turned, and just in case he changes his mind while he’s over there, I strip off my cami and my panties. I move quickly, too fast really. It makes me see spots, but after I lie back down, they soon disperse.
When he turns around, something balled in his hand, his eyes alight upon me.
And he freezes.
But his erection slips out of his boxer briefs, pushing at the elastic, throbbing until it frees itself.
My lungs freeze until I do as I did last night—touch myself.
His mouth snags into a snarl.
For the first time, I see him as the predator he is.
And I bask in it.
I’m his willing prey, begging to be claimed by him.
I thrust a finger inside myself, unused to the touch and achy because of it. Knowing it will incite him further, I go ahead with my plan.
Somehow, he looks bigger. Harder.
Meaner.
And I love it.
I want the sinner and the saint.
I want both.
In me.
On me.