Page 63 of Wicked Court

“Shh,” he soothes, his fingertips playing over my abdomen in a mockery of comfort. “You’ll thank me later.”

The words are a promise, a vow that despite the torment, he will guide me. And as much as I loathe to admit it, a part of me believes him—craves the twisted fulfillment only he can provide.

And as he watches me squirm, a deity presiding over his supplicant, I realize that, in this moment, I am utterly and irrevocably his.

“Look at you,” Kaspian murmurs, his voice low and husky, dripping with sinful promise.

He stops just out of my line of sight, his presence a phantom’s stroke against my heated skin.

A click sounds in the silence, and then the soft hum of machinery fills the room. The stone slab tilts, slowly raising my hips upward, presenting me to him almost upside-down in an obscene offering.

“You are a portrait,” he breathes as boots stop just short of my nose, his hooded figure both menacing and magnetic.

The clamps attached to my nipples ache with a sweet torment, each subtle movement amplifying the sensation until it’s all I can feel—all I am.

Kaspian’s eyes, piercing and endless, lower to mine.

He doesn’t touch me, not yet, and the absence of contact is its own form of torture.

“I’m not going to ask you where the necklace is,” he says, his words wrapping around me like silk laced with steel. “Because I honestly don’t want you to answer yet.”

I gasp at a new, sharp bolt running through my nipples, the machine guiding electricity through the wires and into the clamps.

My sharp inhale is laden with unspoken pleas. I need release, a reprieve from this edge that he’s brought me to and left me teetering on.

Then he moves, a shadow come to life, and his hands are suddenly everywhere—exploring, claiming, igniting.

“Time for me to paint.”

His fingers find the tender spots left by Wilder’s teeth, pressing just enough to elicit quick intakes of breath that don’t provide any oxygen.

But it’s when he adjusts the clamps, twisting them infinitesimally until the electric current is constant, that my world narrows to a pinpoint of blinding pleasure-pain.

“Kaspian!” I cry out, the name torn from my lips.

“Shh, Elara,” he whispers, his voice a velvet darkness coaxing me closer to oblivion. “I’m here.”

His breath tickles my inner thighs. I’m throbbing, pulsing for him, the ache building to such unbearable levels that I sob.

Kaspian presses his lips on the inside of one thigh, so close to my pussy, but not close enough.

That’s when the tears come, blinding me as they run up my face.

“K—Kaspian, please.”

I’m on the precipice, so close to the abyss of insanity, when his mouth descends on my pussy.

His kiss is a paradox—both punishing and tender—and as his lips move in a dance as old as time, he ups the electricity running into my breasts.

Kaspian gorges on my nectar like it’s his last meal.

A groan escapes him as he savors the taste. His tongue does the work of a cock with its own mind, diving, curling, flicking.

I’m so blacked out from sensation, my eyes are rolling into the back of my head, but not so much that I don’t notice his dick spearing out from his cloak and headed for my slack-jawed mouth.

“All of you belongs to me,” he growls against my soaked pussy.

Kaspian thrusts his erection into my mouth, forcing it past my teeth and ramming the back of my throat until we’re locked in a brutal 69 position, contorted and twisted like some monstrous creation. Even Frankenstein himself couldn’t have imagined such depravity.

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