Page 37 of Cursed

When the waves finally subside, leaving me boneless and gasping, Landon’s movements change. His tongue is gentle, and each stroke is possessive yet almost tender, as if I’m precious.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

I force my eyes open to find him watching me, his steel-blue gaze dark with satisfaction. His lips and chin glisten with my release as he slowly rises, towering over me once more.

His fingers trace my trembling thigh as he leans close. “You’re already becoming mine inside and out.”

I stare at the ceiling, the artificial stars blurring through my tears. My body pulses with aftershocks I didn’t want but couldn’t stop. What terrifies me most isn’t what he’s doing to me—it’s what’s happening inside my head.

Am I becoming his?

The thought slithers through my mind like poison. My body responds to him against my will, but that’s just biology, right? Nerve endings and physical responses. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except.

Except when he calls me “little butterfly,” a flutter stirs in my chest that is more than fear. When he praises me, some buriedpart of me glows with satisfaction. I caught myself wondering what he’d do next, and not just out of terror.

God, what’s happening to me?

I’ve always been logical, analytical.

“Your body knows,” he said. Is he right?

No. No. I refuse to believe this is anything but a physiological response. My mind is mine. It has to be. But then why did I lean into his touch when he stroked my hair? Why did that gentleness hurt more than cruelty?

I think of the hacked message on my computer screen at work, and how I chose to engage with it instead of reporting it. I think of the cameras in my apartment that I knew about but didn’t remove. I think of the way I donned my mask for this hunt with trembling anticipation.

Did I choose this? Some subconscious part of me?

The tears flow faster now. I can no longer trust my own thoughts. He’s corrupting my code, line by line, rewriting me. And the most terrifying part is that a deep and hidden fragment of me is allowing him.

No. I clench my teeth. I am Sadie Reynolds. I am not his. Not his property, not his project, not his patient.

But as his fingers trail across my skin again, I can’t ignore the treacherous thought: Not hisyet.

16

LANDON

God, she’s so fucking beautiful. So sweet. I can’t stop devouring her, which is new for me. My tongue works relentlessly against her swollen flesh. The taste of her release coats my mouth, but it’s not enough. I need more. Need to feel her shatter again.

My fingers dig deeper into her trembling thighs, spreading her wider as I circle her clit with my tongue. Her body jerks against the restraints, oversensitive from the previous orgasms, but I don’t care. I want another. Need to draw one more surrender from her.

“Give me one more, little butterfly,” I murmur against her slick, heated skin. “Let me taste you again.”

I’ve never been this desperate before. With others, the Hunt was always calculated—a game of psychological warfare where I’d break them down methodically, watching them weep as I dismantled their defenses piece by piece. The physical pleasure was simply a tool to enforce their submission.

But Sadie—fuck, Sadie is different.

Her mind fascinates me, yes, but her body calls to the fundamental man within. I don’t just want to break her. I wantto consume her, mark her, claim every inch of her until she can’t remember a time before she was mine.

I flatten my tongue against her, savoring her whimper as her hips buck involuntarily. The neural restraints pulse around her wrists and ankles, feeding me data about her responses that I barely need. I can read her body perfectly now, know exactly when to ease back, when to press harder.

“Please,” she gasps.

It doesn’t matter what she’s begging for. I won’t stop until I’ve extracted every drop of pleasure her body can give. Until the line between her resistance and surrender is obliterated.

I suck her clit between my lips, flicking it rapidly with my tongue as I slip two fingers inside her. Her inner walls clench around me, telling me she’s close despite her protests. My cock throbs against my pants, demanding attention I refuse to give it yet.