Page 27 of Dance of Deception

“Fuck me, you say,” he muses. “Iwasgoing to be content to lick your cum off my fingers. But if you’d rather lick it off my cock after I fill your pussy with my own cum, I could be convinced to change my plans.”

“No...”

The word trembles from my lips but carries neither weight nor conviction.

The Hound groans, the sound vibrating through my spine like a low, feral growl.

“Careful using that word around me, little dancer,” he snarls into my ear, his breath hot and teasing against my throat. “You might just turn me on too much.”

A violent shudder wracks my body as his fingers plunge into my pussy over and over, curling, stroking, claiming. Sticky wetness coats my thighs. My legs quake, my nails dig into his shirt, and my breath frays into gasps as he pins me tighter against the cold, unyielding wall.

“Yes,” he rasps, voice dark with filthy enjoyment.

His hips press against mine, trapping me. I can feel the obscene bulge in his pants throbbing against my thigh, sending a dark shiver down my spinal column.

“Push me away, little prey.Fight back.”

A mewling whimper tears from my throat as I press my palm against his chest, trying—needing—to create space between us.

“Hit me.”

I freeze. “Wha?—”

“I said HIT. ME.”

The words are snarled, monstrous, demanding.

I react before I think.

My hand flies up, slamming hard against his chest.

A sharp exhale rips from him. Instantly, my legs buckle as his fingers ram harder, deeper, twisting, stretching, pushing me to a breaking point I didn’t know I had.

“Harder.”

His voice is low, guttural, seething with challenge.

“I said fuckingfightme, little dancer, not tickle me.”

My stomach is clenched so tight I can hardly stand. The way he says it—wanting, needing, daring me to give him more—sends a brutal, vicious ache spiraling through me.

I hit him again.

Harder.

His fingers drive deeper. Rougher.

I can’t stop. Neither can he.

Pleasure and pain blur into something else entirely—raw, depraved, undeniable.

My body arches into his touch even as my fists keep striking against his chest, his mask, his arms; my movements growing sloppier, more desperate and unhinged.

A growl rumbles deep in his throat, pleased, starving.

“Therewe are,” he breathes, his grip tightening, putting me exactly where he wants me as I teeter on the edge of oblivion, his fingers stroking in and out at a frantic pace that takes my breath away.

“Be a good little fuck toy and come on my fingers.”

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