Page 50

“Stop trying to deny what you crave,” he adds, voice like poison dipped in a glass of honey. “Because eventually, we’ll make you beg for it.”

And then he shifts.

Not away—deeper.

His thigh slips between mine, pinning me open, grinding into the heat that’s already begun to pulse traitorously between my legs. My breath stutters.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, soft but firm. “And I will.”

I glare up at him, lips curled in defiance. “Go to hell.”

He leans in, voice brushing the shell of my ear. “That’s not ano, little storm.”

I hate him. I hate him so fucking much.

So why the hell am I soaking through my panties?

And then his mask presses to my throat, like he wants to press his lips there to where my pulse thunders beneath the surface. Just a whisper of heat and breath against skin, but I go still beneath it.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice dipped in that honeyed warning. “Say it.”

I don’t.

Not because I want this.

But because Idon’t knowwhat I want anymore.

He laughs again. Darker this time. He shifts, the thick length of his cock grinding harder against my thigh through the layers between us. It’s punishment and promise in one movement, and my breath shudders out in response.

“I could fuck you right here,” he says. “Right now. And you’d hate yourself for loving it.”

His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my panties, slow and deliberate. He drags them in just a single stroke against my slit. Testing. Savoring.

“You’d scream for me, little storm,” he whispers, breath grazing the shell of my ear. “Not for mercy. Formore.”

And the worst part?

He’s not wrong.

My body is melting beneath his grip. Burning alive.

It reacts before my brain can catch up—arching, aching, alive under him. And then—just like that—he withdraws, sliding off me in one fluid movement, leaving behind a vacuum of heat and tension.

I sit up too quickly, blood pounding in my ears, fury burning hotter than ever.

He reaches for where the restraints hang and lifts the wrist cuff he’d released earlier. “You’re not ready yet,” he says simply, like he’s explaining something to a child. “You think you are, but your temper still owns you.”

“I’m not staying here,” I snap, yanking my arm out of reach.

He catches it easily anyway and secures the cuff back around my wrist. Then the other. Not harsh. Not fast. But with finality.

When he steps back, I notice something different.

The chains have been adjusted. A little longer. A little more slack in the links connecting to the headboard. Just enough that I could shift and move freely within the bed—but not enough to make it anywhere beyond that.

My ankles are left free.

“How generous,” I mutter, flexing my fingers.