Page 85 of Broken

Withme.

I almost groan, but I remember just in time.I have to be quiet. I have to be quiet. I have to be quiet. I have to be quiet—it’s a litany in my head.

I must have released a noise, though, because it pushes him into action. For a second, I fear he’ll leave me, but he doesn’t. He storms over and takes a seat at my side. Carefully, he raises my head, letting his fingers brush over my hair and my scars, then as he tips it up, he bites out, “Open your mouth.”

I obey, and he pops what I see is a handkerchief into it.

The cotton feels funny against my tongue, but it’s worth it when he rumbles, “Good girl.”

I like that.

I don’t know why I do, but I do.

He gently lowers my head to the pillow, then he lets go and trails fingers over my shoulders and down to my breasts.

One hand moves between my legs where he runs his fingers over my outer folds, and the other goes to my nipple. He pinchesit hard, and when I squeal, the noise is dampened by the cloth but not fully, triggering him to tap my pussy.

I jerk at that, not having anticipated it, but somehow it’s like a fire has combusted in my veins.

It’s roaring through my body, raging through my system.

Inferno.

“You like that. I can see you do.”

He pats me again, and I don’t moan, but I feel how wet I am. The tap is more of a splat, and before I can be embarrassed, he rolls onto his back.

Though I see the flash of pain cross his expression, he grates out, “Sit on my face.”

Sit on his face?

What—

Before I can hesitate too long, he growls and then hauls me into position.

Within seconds, I’m sitting over him, my knees on either side of his head.

This can’t be?—

This isn’t?—

Oh, God!

A scream throttles me, robbing me of air, choking me of breath as I struggle to contain it. His tongue lashing against my clit is like everything I expected and nothing I imagined.

It’s fire and ice, pleasure and pain. He sucks, he nips, he licks. He growls and grunts, the vibrations making me throb with delight and wonder, even as he makes me think this might be hell.

How can something be this good and hurt so bad?

How can I want it but need something that’s so far out of reach, I don’t know how to attain it?

The sounds he emits, the slickness of my flesh, the pleasure and the need and the desperate, soul-deep ache make my headpound. The spots return, dancing in front of my eyes, but I don’t fear them this time.

My hands hover at my sides as I try to figure out what to do with them, and in the end, I plunk them on the wall above the bed.

When I almost loosen the crucifix nailed there, I tense, but before I can worry if it’s going to fall and hit him, he sucks on my clit and makes the most delicious noise—like I’m the best fudge ice cream sundae he’s ever had.

That I have to be silent,mute, is a torture so exquisite, I don’t know if it makes this more enjoyable or less.

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