Page 31 of Claimed By Rage

He presses his lips to my jaw and hums again, like he’s enjoying his little mind game. “Wake me up when you change your mind.” He drops back onto the pillow and stretches, getting comfortable. My limbs ache, my muscles coiled tight simply because I can’t unwind them. Even though Rage’s bed is wide enough to fit three people, he stays close, taking up the middle of the bed like he owns it and keeping his arm around my waist like he ownsme.

I guess, technically, he does.

For the next eight hours, at least.

I listen to his breathing, waiting for the moment it slows. Time passes in blind increments. I search the room for a clock, but there is none. Although I feel Rage’s limbs twitch as his body tries to succumb to sleep, he never fully relaxes. Is that his normal, or is he waiting for me to take him up on his offer? Is that why he can’t sleep?

What the hell would I even give him for it?

All the possibilities that come to mind are of me on my knees choking on his cock again or of me spreading my legs for him to shove it as deep inside as he can while he relentlessly fucks me for the remainder of our eight hours together.

Neither of which are fucking happening.

But still, the idea settles somewhere in the vulnerable part of my mind between waking and dreaming, hooking its claws in so that I’ll think of it not only when I’m asleep, but also when I’m wide fucking awake.

Like right now. I amwideawake.

I replay the events of the night in my head, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. What could I have done differently? Would it have made a difference, or would I still be here in Rage’s bed, cuffed like a prisoner… or a plaything.

The neon pink sign forThe Playroomflashes through my mind. Then the blinding white sign forrestroomsfollows. The two women who helped me in the restroom—Fox the redhead and the blonde nicknamed Angel. I chew on their advice as the silence between me and Rage stretches on.

If he’s gonna hold you down and fuck you, you’ve gotta do the same.

You’ll be in control of what happens—or doesn’t.

Is that what I need to do to take Rage’s power away? Fuck him first?

I don’t think I’m understanding their advice correctly. Thatcan’tbe the answer. Then I’m giving him exactly what he wants—my body, my attention, myeverything.Giving in feels a lot like losing.

But so does lying in the dark for the next eight hours, unable to move beyond what Rage allows.

Tentatively, I twist my body toward him. What do I even say?Hi, I’ve changed my mind, can I fuck you?

Yeah, that’sreallygonna show him who’s boss.

I need to act first, ask for permissionnever.It’s what Rage would do. It’s how he keeps his power. Hetakes.

Steeling the nerves fluttering in my gut, I press my body into Rage’s, smashing my tits against his arm and laying my thigh across his. I can’t push myself up and into his lap without the use of my hands, so I use what I can to get Rage’s attention.

I rub my pussy on his thigh and press my knee into his crotch, feeling his cock swell from the pressure. If he wasn’t awake before, he is now, the harsh inhale giving him away. I keep moving my hips, hitching my clit on his muscled thigh, rubbing his cock with my knee.

It can’t be comfortable or anything close to soft, but within seconds, his cock has sprung back to life.

Pleasure skates up my spine as I use Rage’s body for my own benefit. This is new for me. I don’t dry hump people. Or pillows. Or dildos. Oranything. But Rage’s body is sowarm, the hard muscle of his thigh flexing as I rub against him as best I can from this angle. I pant these tiny, hot puffs of air near Rage’s ear, and finally, he moves.

Gripping my leg, he drags my thigh further over his hips, trapping his cock in the crevice where my calf meets the back of my knee, and shifting my body so that I can better grind against him. I whimper as he thrusts, rubbing his dick against my leg while I do the same with my pussy and grind my hips to increase the friction.

We both pant these hushed, heated breaths, neither of us speaking, both of us seeking our own pleasure.

It isn’t until I bite his shoulder on a particularly magnificent swivel of my hips that he groans and reaches for me. Gravity tilts as he drags my body on top of him and forces my legs apart, making me straddle his hips.

The head of his cock presses insistently against my clit, the long length of him slotted against my core, the soaked crotch of my boxers molding to our bodies. I drag in a needy lungful of air while he palms my thighs, running the rough pads of his hands up and down in these slow, long drags of skin-on-skin.

“What are you doing,krosotka?”

I shudder from the rumble in his voice, followed by an impatient twitch of his cock. I’ve given him a way to break his word. He could spear me on top of his cock and force me to take his length, his girth, all the way to the hilt. It would beeasy.For him to take, and for me to let it happen.

But that’s not what this exercise is about.

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