Page 33 of Deviant Obsession

I draw in a shaky breath. "It's... it's a lot. I'm not sure I can take much more."

Dean swipes a damp curl back from my face, studying my expression intently. His features soften slightly, but that dangerous edge remains in his eyes. "We can stop if you want to. You've done so well for me. If you want to keep going, would you take three more strikes? Just three?"

The tender praise makes my chest warm despite the fire racing across my skin. I want to please him. I want to prove I can take whatever he gives me. "Yes. I can do three more."

"God, you’re so eager," he murmurs, moving back into position. It’s only then that I notice the bulge straining against his jeans. Hurting me like this, seeing me cry even, it’s got him rock hard. "Count them for me, little one."

The cane leaves a line of fire across my thigh that makes me cry out, my body jerking against the restraints as I almost sob through the tally. But before I can fall apart completely, Dean's hands are already on my ankles, releasing the restraints and soothing the welted skin there. Without another word, he drops between my spread legs, and the first swipe of his tongue against my clit has me gasping for an entirely different reason.

He devours me like the starving man I saw in his eyes before, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have me writhing. My hands strain against the binding at my wrists, desperate to tangle in his hair as he works me higher. But hedoesn’t want me to move, gripping onto my tortured thighs and holding me open as I buck against his mouth.

"Dean…please," I whimper, my ability to produce a coherent sentence entirely robbed from me. He responds by sucking hard on my clit and sliding two fingers inside me, curling them in a motion that sends me hurtling over the edge. My orgasm slams into me before I can even think to ask for permission.

While I’m still floating in that space where I don’t know which way is up, wave after wave of pleasure seizing my muscles, Dean is already moving again. He flips me onto my stomach in one easy motion, yanking my hips up while my wrists cross in their restraints. The sound of his zipper and a foil wrapper crinkling barely registers before he's positioning himself at my entrance.

“Color?”

“Green! Please…Use me.” I sound so fucking desperate. Iamdesperate.

"Such a good girl," he growls, not wasting another second before sliding into me in one deep thrust that tears a feral moan from my lips. "Fuck, you take everything I give you so beautifully." His fingers dig into my hips as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me deeper into the mattress.

The delicious angle has him hitting spots that make my toes curl, and it’s not long before I'm climbing toward another peak. He’s as thick as I remember him feeling between my lips, stretching me open as his impossible length threatens to rearrange my organs. When he snakes one hand around my hip to find my clit, my eyes roll into the back of my skull, a small puddle of drool starting to form on the sheets against my cheek.

"Come for me again, little one," he commands, stroking me with those expert fingers. "Now."

Powerless to deny him anything he wants from me, I clench around him as pleasure washing through my body all over again.Dean groans deep in his throat, his hips stuttering against mine as he follows me over the edge, pulsing hot inside the condom as his forehead drops to the sweat-slicked skin between my shoulder blades.

Chapter 11

Rhea

My face is still buriedin the silken sheets as gentle fingers work at the rope around my wrists. I lift my head and flex my fingers experimentally, watching the shadows of rope marks fade across my skin.

"Easy now," Dean murmurs, his touch impossibly soft as he examines my abused flesh. "Let me take care of you."

He nudges me to turn around and lie on my back, the contrast between this tenderness and his earlier dominance making my head spin. I watch him in awe as he reaches for a bottle on the side table, his expression one of calm focus. The first touch of cool lotion against my heated skin draws a quiet gasp from my lips.

"Too cold?" he asks, already adjusting his pressure.

I shake my head, mesmerized by the careful way he traces each raised welt across my thighs and stomach. His fingertips dance along the marks he left, soothing away the lingering sting. It feels almost like being reverently studied, like he's mapping constellations across my skin.

The silence wraps around us like a cocoon, broken only by my occasional sighs as he works. My mind keeps flickering back to moments before—the sharp crack of leather against flesh, andthe way my body arched into each strike, hungry for more. The memory alone has me exhilarated despite how exhausted I am.

"You're trembling," Dean observes, his palm coming to rest flat against my hip.

"Good trembling," I manage to whisper, arching instinctively into his touch.

His other hand continues its gentle exploration, finding every spot that needs attention. I never expected this level of care from him. The man who just had me begging and writhing under his cane now treats me like I'm made of crystal.

My eyes drift closed as he works the lotion into my skin, but I can still feel his gaze on me. I find myself swaying slightly under his ministrations, drunk on the combination of endorphins and his unexpected gentleness. His hands are strong but tender, nothing like the commanding grip that held me in place earlier.

When he finally sits back, I feel the loss of his touch like a physical ache. Opening my eyes, I catch him watching me with an expression I've never seen before. It’s raw and unguarded, making my chest tight.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"I feel..." I trail off, searching for words that won't come. How do I describe this floating sensation? This strange mix of vulnerability and safety? The way my skin still hums with remembered pain while my heart thuds with something dangerously close to trust?

Dean waits patiently, his presence steady and grounding beside me. Sitting up against the pillows, I look down at the marks bloomed across my pale skin. It’s evidence of how completely I surrendered to him. The sight should shock me; it should probably frighten me. But instead, I find myself tracing them with wandering fingers, already cataloging which ones might linger longest.

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