Page 83 of Twisted Cage

Bringing my thumb to my mouth, I suck her arousal from my skin, savoring her taste bursting on my tongue.

“When you learn to fucking do as you’re told, I might just have to reward you with my mouth on this tight little pussy and not come up for hours.”

She opens her mouth to snarl at me, and I take full advantage. Slanting my mouth over hers, I swallow her barbs. Her spiteful little tongue wars with mine as she strains closer, all mewling whimpers and sharp teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

Warm, wet, and wild, I take until I’m swallowing her moans where they mingle with mine, and we’re both a tangle of heaving breaths devouring one another.

Tearing myself from the distraction of her mouth, I take satisfaction in her swollen, wet lips. Resting my hand low on her belly, I swipe her tender flesh with my thumb once again and tease that tight bundle of nerves until her legs tremble.

Finally, the anger in her expression slips away and she surrenders to the pleasure. Her eyes dart around frantically as the release she yearns for hovers so close—I yank my hand away and smack my palm down on her pussy—yet so far away.

Her eyes shoot open and narrow.

“That’s for cutting me, you little shit.” I tug my achingly hard cock from my pants and drag the head along her hot slit I wrecked earlier, already glistening for me. With zero finesse and giving zero fucks whether I cause her pain after the way she scared the life out of me, I slam inside her wet heat.

Pain is living.

I’ll be the man to make sure she’s utterly destroyed, while overflowing with life.

Buried to the hilt, I have to wonder how I ever lived without this. How I could ever live without this. “You tell me, Pcholka… does this organ feel expendable?”

Her lips break apart in a gasp, her back bows, moonlight illuminating her skin as her head falls back against the stone, stretching out her vulnerable neck before me. Her heart riots out of control, her pulse hammering just under the delicate skin at the base of her throat.

Brushing that vulnerable, sweet spot alongside her clit becomes my absolute favorite thing to do as I watch her soften under the attention. Drawing out of her, the cool air hits my wet cock. A hiss slips from between my teeth.

Gliding my thumb in tandem as I fuck her, she coils tight, her neck flexing as she gulps back a sob.

I slap her pussy again and drive into her. “Can you live without me wrecking you with this cock every chance I get?”

The way she’s draped on the cross like a sacrifice is blasphemous. The blatant disrespect to the grave only adds to my mountain of sins, each one shackling to me, ready to drag me to hell.

But it won’t be tonight.

I curl over her and sink my teeth into the firm flesh on the inside curve of her breast. “Do you think you can live without me?”

Gliding most of the way out of her, I bury myself to the hilt once again, prompting her choked satisfying cry. She pulses around me, squeezing, drawing me impossibly deep, and my chest swells with a renewed purpose.

Submission.

Victory.

“Would your pussy weep for anyone else’s cock the way it does for mine?” My gaze lands on my blood, now smeared along one creamy thigh and my name scrawled across the other.

Both stake my claim, but they’re not enough. I want her words.

I grab her chin and turn her defiant face to mine as I thrust harder into her until I reach a maddening pace, only backing off when she gets close to release. I torture myself along with her by tethering my urge to let go and violently take her. “Who do you belong to?”

She yanks her head back and forth, but I don’t let her slip from my grip. Leaning in so close her desperate pants flutter over my skin, I growl down at her. “Say it!”

“No one.” The words drip with stubborn rebellion before she clamps her lips shut.

I rear back and smack her pussy again, the contact splitting the air with the satisfying crack of my palm against her tender flesh. “The fuck you don’t. Who. Do. You. Belong. To?”

The answer I want so desperately lingers in her eyes, but she keeps the words trapped in her throat. Admission is surrender, and she’s spent a lifetime belonging to everyone except herself.

Any other man would succumb to their wounded pride and force the words from her, but they’d be meaningless.

Could I live with doubt if I forced them from her? Is this how I want either of us to remember the first time she confesses out loud to what we both already know?

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