Page 31 of Raziel

“Shit,” I breathed, hips twitching when the head hit the back of her throat. Her spit made every slide of her mouth smoother than the last.

“Fuck, Maya,” I gasped, chest heaving.

She hummed around my dick, and the vibration nearly made me swerve again.

Her hand came up, cupping my balls, rolling them slowly.

She knew exactly how to unravel me.

My vision blurred for a second. It was too much—too fast, too fucking good.

“I’m gonna cum,” I warned, teeth gritted, trying to hold off just a little longer.

She didn’t stop.

If anything, she got hungrier.

Her lips tightened. My dick went deeper.

Her mouth became a vice, her tongue relentless—and I lost it.

I came hard, groaning as my dick pulsed in her mouth.

She swallowed everything like she’d been starving for it—not a single drop wasted.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were slick and swollen, her eyes dark and gleaming with smug satisfaction.

“Thanks for the bike,” she said, voice low and thick.

I could barely think, let alone speak.

I nodded, still catching my breath, still adjusting to the fact that I hadn’t crashed the damn truck.

A hiss slipped between my teeth as she tucked my still-twitching dick back into my boxers.

With a smirk on her face, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes like she hadn’t just rocked my entire world.

I focused back on the road.

Chapter ten- Raziel

The warehouse was a furnace. Stale heat clung to the air, thick with the stench of sweat, rusted metal, and the sharp tang of blood—old and fresh.

The guy tied to the chair had stopped begging twenty minutes ago. Now, all that came out of him were guttural groans, each one punched loose whenever Priest’s fist found bone.

His left eye was swollen shut, the right glazed over, unseeing. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through with sweat and blood, the dark fabric glistening under the flickering overhead light. A steady drip fell from his chin, splattering onto the concrete like it had always belonged there.

Priest didn’t look angry. Just steady. Methodical. Like a man balancing his checkbook.

“You lied to me,” he repeated, voice low, almost gentle.

The guy twitched, his broken jaw working uselessly. No words left in him. Just a wet, rattling breath.

Priest sighed, turned, and picked up the pliers.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, my suit jacket long discarded, sleeves rolled up past my forearms. Normally, I’d be in the thick of it. Normally, I’d be the one peeling back flesh until secrets spilled out.

But my phone buzzed in my pocket.