Page 72 of Tempest

“Because I’m your sister’s best friend. The only one she has left since her other one was murdered.”

He goes still.

“So if you don’t give a shit about me, how about you think of the one person who actually gives a shit about you?”

I notch my chin, satisfied I’ve gotten to him until he eats up the space between us and shoves me until I slam back into the chair.

Tempest’s scowling features darken my vision. “Too bad for you, princess, Nick wasn’t the one who fucked you. Nick isn’t the one who claimed your pussy and your mouth, and Nick isn’t going to be the one to ever touch you. He’ll lose whatever limp dick he’s managed to hang onto during his stint in prison if he ever tracks you down and tries. That clear?”

Thank god. I don’t voice it. My quivering muscles give Tempest the answers he needs, anyway.

“You’re a sick chick. More twisted than I gave you credit for,” he continues. “Wanting a man who treated you worse than a farm animal. That’s how you like it, huh? Trussed up like a pig? Spread like a mare?”

I can’t contain my flinch at his words.

He hooks his hand under my jaw, forcing my chin up. “Sacrificed like a little lamb?”

Tempest feels my answering swallow against his wrist. He smiles. “I’m worse.”

“What are you?” I ask through the pressure on my throat. “What is this place?”

“Your nightmares and jagged memories are heaven compared to this.”

Tempest kneels between my knees. His thumb goes to my clit, and I gasp.

“I’ll do you a favor,” he says while looking up between my legs. “I’ll suck out your juices, blood, and my cum, and then I’ll send you on your merry way, back to my sister, and I’ll leave it to you to explain to everyone else you fooled the loss of your fragile, sweet image and what a dirty, bad girl you’ve become.”

“I—”

He pulls at my hips in the same spots he left bruises on earlier, his mouth suctioning onto my pussy and tongue darting out before I can so much as say wait.

The pleasure is so instant and consuming that I forget that my hands are free. When I do remember, I should use them to yank at his hair and unglue his lips, but I can’t. I won’t. Instead, they tangle against his scalp, pushing him deeper, turning his tongue into a dick as I toss my head back and moan.

“I’m exactly who I claim to be,” I say through a sigh. “You, on the other hand…”

I let my head loll to the side, taking in the old, lopsided shelving on one wall with colorless pots and vases.

Tempest swipes a circle inside me, then bares his teeth against my folds and digs in. I jerk, but, unable to lift my legs, I squeeze my thighs against his face instead, keeping him there, driving him deeper.

I’m supposed to be sore. Swollen and tender. If only my body wanted to listen to my brain.

Tempest presses in, tonguing and lapping me up just like he promised, and I whimper.

Blinking, I attempt to return to my assessment. Rows of jars. Some ripple, others are opaque, and the rest … move? Bugs? Frogs?

I don’t know. I don’t care.

Yes. Yes, I do care! I have to.

My nails curl into Tempest’s blackened chestnut hair, the silky strands tickling my skin.

If I had to guess, I’m at Anderton Cottage, underground perhaps, in a basement or bunker. There are streaks on the ground, discerned with the help of what little light shines from the corner lamps. Chains hang on the wall over Tempest’s head, ending with cuffs. A wooden contraption leans against the corners, its sharp edges poking out of the shadows like joints from a forest creature’s limbs…

“Ardyn,” Tempest demands.

I drop my chin, meeting his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks with glistening lips.

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