Page 13 of Fractured Onyx

Instead, I let him do as he pleases, holding my breath as his fingers slowly inch their way down to my center. Just like last time, he pauses right before actually caressing my entrance, his hand hovering right before he reaches my heated core.

But this time, he doesn't stop. He doesn't make me say things, he doesn't taunt me—and he doesn't humiliate me.

This time, he touches me.

I don't know if it's a moan or a feeble attempt at an objection that escapes my lips when I can feel the tips of his fingers tracing my lips. He rests there for a moment, the smile on his face widening as our eyes lock.

I feel so exposed, so ashamed at how all of this is making me feel, but when I try to hide from his touch, he forbids me.

I close my eyes in embarrassment. "No, look at me," he orders. "Keep looking at me."

I take a deep breath, confused at how hard it is to obey him. It's as if he's asking me to perform an impossibly hard task, when all he wants is eye contact. Connection and intimacy—neither of which I ever expected to experience in this horrible place.

His smile turns into a sinister smirk when his fingers continue trailing along my center, parting my lips as he lets two fingers slide between them at once.

I should be repulsed by this. He kidnapped me and has forced all of this on me, doing whatever he pleases with me while I have no choice but to endure it.

And instead of fighting and standing up for myself, I'm lying here with my heart beating more rapidly than it has ever beaten before and my core exploding with sensations as he begins massaging my swollen clit.

"Knew it," he remarks snidely. "You're loving this."

I am. I really am.

The rope is cutting into my flesh in several places, but never in a way that's painful. It's tight and constraining, pinching my skin in just the right way. I know I couldn't free myself of these knots even if I tried. I'm completely at his mercy, subjected to whatever he wants.

Yet, I am not scared. On the contrary, I feel oddly safe. The rope feels like a tight hug around my body. It's soothing and reassuring, making every single breath I take that much more meaningful and intense, because I have to push for it.

Everything that's happening is so much more intense, and that includes his touch.

He moves his fingers with such skill, never too slow, never too fast, but always at the right speed and always in the right spot—almostin the right spot. I sigh deeply when he brushes right next to my sensitive nub, scarcely touching it as he continues to move in sensual circles around it. Every contact feels like an eruption, as feeble as it may be. But he always makes sure to avoid the very place I want him to touch, leaving my enflamed nub almost untouched for what feels like an agonizing eternity.

"Tell me what you want," he says in a whisper, breaking the sound of my erratic breaths as I find myself curling under his touch.

I bite my lip. I can't possibly tell him. I just can't.

"Do you want me to stop?"

My head is shaking before I can make a conscious decision. "No, please, don't-"

"Then tell me what you want," he interrupts. "Or I'll stop."

Shame heats my face once again, but I manage to withstand the urge to turn away from him and his probing gaze. His hand is still at my core, still massaging, still evoking hot sparks of lust that make me twist and jerk beneath him, and his gray eyes are latched onto mine.

"Tell me," he repeats. "What do you want?"

My lips move, but no words follow. I want to answer him, I want to tell him what I want—but how do you voice a response when you don't know the answer yourself?

"More," I breathe eventually. "I want... more."

It's a vague statement, and he meets it with an equally vague response. Arching his eyebrows, he leans forward, his eyes still locked on mine, and I can feel his hand move between my legs. A groan flees my lips when he stretches me with his fingers, using not one but two at once.

"More?" he presses. "Like this? Is this what you want?"

He adds a third finger before I get a chance to respond, causing my entire body to jerk up as he stretches my channel. I'm so wet that he glides inside with ease, effortlessly rocking back and forth when he begins fucking me with his fingers.

I throw my head back into the mattress, gasping when he presses his thumb on my swollen clit. My legs part impossibly further, testing the rope while my body spasms out of control. I feel the need to move, to kick and turn, to give room to these overwhelming sensations.

But I can't. The rope is keeping me firmly in place, only allowing me to make a small range of motions that don't even come close to giving me room to move—and it makes everything that much more excruciating, that much better.

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