Page 30

Just as the dress slips past my hips, the door bursts open.

A girl stumbles in, phone in hand, her mouth already open to gossip.

That is, until she sees Silas with a gun drawn and pointed directly at her face.

“Jesus Christ!” she yelps, stumbling back. “What the fuck? Psycho!”

“Get out,” Silas growls, his tone flat and sharp.

She doesn’t wait. She just mutters something about security and quickly scrambles out. The door slams shut behind her, and he holsters the weapon like it’s a part of him.

Then, he turns back to me and says, “Continue.”

I’m frozen, my breath shallow. My dress is now a puddle on the floor, my body in just lacy underwear and pink strappy heels. The cool air kisses my exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes rake over me.

He doesn’t speak. He just looks.

And that look? It’s possession. Hunger. Worship and punishment tangled into one.

I step out of the fabric and straighten, resisting the urge to cover myself. My nipples are already hard, my thighs slick with need. I feel raw, open. Like prey stepping willingly into the predator’s den.

His eyes roam over me, slow and methodical. His gaze lingers on my breasts, the white lace barely hiding the peaks, then down to where my panties cling to my soaked heat.

He steps forward. Slow, purposeful, and almost predatory.

My breath hitches as his fingers brush the delicate edge of my panties. He doesn’t touch my skin. Not yet. Just the lace—the little pink scrap that suddenly feels childish under his gaze.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Standing there, barely dressed and dripping for me.”

I want to deny it. I want to tease him. But I can’t. I’m burning and drenched, and my thighs are trembling from how much I want him.

Then, without warning, he grips the waistband of my panties in both hands. And tears.

The sound of the lace giving way is sharp, violent, and erotic in a way I never imagined something so simple could be.

It snaps, splits, and falls, slow as sin, down my legs.

I gasp as the cool air hits me. I’m fully exposed now. The tattered fabric flutters to the floor, catching around my heels like a lacy collar I’ve shed for him.

He doesn’t spare the scraps a second glance. Instead, his eyes are locked on the slick heat between my thighs.

I feel everything. The sting of the tear, the heat of his gaze, and the humiliating, beautiful thrill of being stripped bare not by accident but by force. By intention.

“You have no idea…” he says, his voice smooth and hot, “…how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

And God help me, I hope he never stops.

“Up,” he murmurs. “On the counter.”

My pulse jackhammers. The words aren’t loud, but they slam into me like a command wired into my bones. I turn, the marble counter hard beneath my fingertips as I lift myself up. The surface is cool against the back of my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat pooling between them.

He steps back a pace, just enough to look. Really look.

“Wider,” he says.

I hesitate, half out of modesty, half out of defiance. But his gaze is like a magnet, his control a net. He has control over me with only his gaze, and anticipation tugs at me as I part my legs. I know it’s not enough, but I can’t help enjoying his attention on me.

“More,” he commands.

I obey.

My knees open wider, my feet dangling from the edge of the counter. There’s nothing between me and his eyes now. I’m spread open under the soft glow of the vanity lights, every inch of me exposed to him.

He doesn’t move for a moment.

He just stares intently like he’s trying to etch the image of me—open, wet, waiting—into his memory.

“Fucking perfect,” he growls, his voice low and reverent.

All I can do is breathe. And ache. And burn under his gaze like I’ve been set on fire just by the way he’s looking at me.

A low sound escapes him, half-groan, half-growl. It makes my core clench.

He steps toward me and reaches out. His hands trail down from my waist to my thighs. He goes up and down a few times, making me wetter with anticipation until his fingers finally press into my pussy. I gasp, my hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Filthy little thing,” he murmurs, the words rasping against my skin like lace dipped in embers. His fingers slide into me, and he moves his thumb in slow, agonizing circles over my clit. “Already dripping. We haven’t even begun.”

I moan, clutching his shoulders for balance, for sanity. My nails dig into the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice husky with hunger.

I open my mouth, then hesitate. The words knot in my throat.

“What do you want, Lyra?” he asks again, this time with a dark edge. With his other hand, he grips my breast, tightening it just enough to sting.

“You,” I breathe, my voice almost broken with need.

His lips quirk, but he isn’t done. “What part of me?”

I swallow. Hard. He rolls my nipple between his finger and thumb while his other hand slowly moves into me. I gasp, holding his arm that’s working my pussy because I don’t want him to stop. I whimper. “Your mouth. Your cock. Anything you’ll give me.”

“Anything?” he repeats, his grin slow and wicked, like he already knows the answer and wants to hear me say it anyway.

And I do. Without shame. Without hesitation. “Yes. Anything.”

He gives me a wicked smile, which should scare me. I know it should. But instead, it turns me on even more.

The marble countertop is cold against my bare thighs, but it’s nothing compared to the endless heat burning just beneath my skin.

The lights above cast a soft glow, catching every edge of Silas’s expression—hungry, wild, but in complete control.

“Touch yourself,” he rasps.

I blink, unsure I heard him right. My breath hitches.

For a moment, I laugh, or almost do. I search his face for a smirk, a trace of teasing. But there’s none. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark, serious in a way that makes my stomach flip and heat crawl up my neck.

He steps closer, coming between my knees. “You heard me, Lyra. Make yourself come.”

His voice is a command. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. Just the heavy truth of what he wants and what he already knows I’ll do.

I swallow hard, my heart thudding in my chest. My wrists twitch where they rest beside my thighs. It’s not nerves. It’s anticipation, tension, and the slow build of need tightening inside me like a coil.

“We’re not locked in,” I whisper, glancing at the bathroom door.

“No one’s coming in,” he murmurs, stepping in closer, his hand brushing my knee. “And I didn’t ask. I told you.”

That last sentence hits low in my belly, and my thighs press together instinctively.

He tilts his head, watching me, not blinking or breathing.

It’s not a request.

He steps toward me, takes out his gun, and hands it to me.

“Don’t use your finger.” He nods toward the gun. My body is burning with anticipation. I take it from him wordlessly and find that it’s loaded. I should be scared, but instead, I’m intrigued.

My breath shudders as I slide one hand down, my fingertips tracing over my skin. I’m already dripping wet, embarrassingly so, and when I touch myself with the muzzle, I can’t help the soft gasp that escapes my lips.

“That’s it,” Silas growls, his voice rough. “Let me see how badly you want it.”

I look up at him through my lashes. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t touched me, but I feel him everywhere—his presence, his stare, the heat radiating off him like he’s barely holding himself back.

I slide the muzzle onto my clit and circle slowly.

The sensation hits hard, too much, yet still not enough.

My hips lift slightly off the counter, searching for more friction, more of anything.

But Silas doesn’t move. He just watches me like I’m the only thing that exists, a low groan escaping his lips.

“You like following my orders?” he demands, his voice a rasp. “You like me telling you exactly how to fall apart?”

“Yes,” I breathe, barely able to form the word. My thighs tremble. I’m already so close that it’s humiliating.

“Then keep going,” he instructs. “Wider.”

I spread my legs further apart on the counter, baring everything for him. The cold air licks against my soaked skin, but his eyes and the way he looks at me are what sets me on fire.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “Undone. Mine. Fucking yourself with my gun.”

I rub faster, deeper, chasing it, my hips lifting, the slick sound of the muzzle between my legs echoing in the tiled room. The gun’s heavy in my hands, but I don’t care. I want him to hear the sound. I want him to know what he does to me.

My body tightens, my breath coming in sharp bursts as my eyes lock with his. “Silas…”

He steps closer, cups the side of my throat with one firm hand, and lowers his mouth to my ear. “Come for me, Lyra. That’s it,” he growls, his voice barely recognizable, thick with restraint. “Look at me when you come.”

My head snaps up, my eyes glassy and wild, locked onto his. I’m hanging by a thread, and he’s the blade about to cut it. I can feel my cheeks heating up, my lips parted, my breath coming in short, helpless bursts. But Silas’s perfect, furious face is trembling on the edge.

I hate him for this.

Yet I want him more than I can stand.

“Say it,” Silas growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“No,” I gasp, the word tearing out of me like defiance, but it’s cracked and trembling. Even I can hear how thin it sounds. My hips roll despite my best efforts, chasing more friction, more of what I need. The gun’s a blur, my body already slipping past the edge of control.

“Say it, Lyra.”

I shake my head, my jaw clenched and eyes burning, but it’s useless. My body betrays me. My thighs are shaking, my stomach tight with the pull of orgasm. I’m seconds from unraveling, and he knows it. I can see it in his eyes.

I’m shaking, panting, and completely undone, but I still glare at him. I still try to hold on to some sliver of control.

“You come,” he whispers, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip as he steps forward, “and you come knowing it’s for me. No one else.”

And then I break.

My orgasm hits like a wave snapping loose, violent and blinding.

My mouth falls open in a soundless cry as my body convulses, my hips jerking uncontrollably, my fingers still deep and slick and trembling inside me.

I’m burning alive from the inside out. There’s no air, no gravity, just this—the heat, the ache, and the humiliating ecstasy of coming because he told me to.

Because I wanted to.

I collapse forward, my forehead pressed to his forehead, my breath ragged, and my hair falling over my face like a curtain.

Then his fingers trace down my spine, soft and almost reverent. I shiver under his touch as he leans in, his voice brushing my ear like wind and steel. “You think that was release?” he murmurs. “That was mercy.”

I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.

But somewhere inside me, between the wreckage and the aftershocks, something sharp and thrilling twists tight in my chest.

Because I know he’s right.

He hasn’t even begun to ruin me.