Page 32 of Unholy Obsession

Make her mad with craving.

Don’t stop until she’s screaming your name and calling you her god.

The vein bulges in my neck as Moira finishes with her teeth and wipes that sultry mouth, big eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Her wintry fresh mouth would feel so good gulping down my cock. Gagging on my balls.

I lean over the sink and spit. I want her on her knees, want to spit into her mouth and for her to accept it like it’s God’s gift.

Instead, I white knuckle the counter.

She’s grinning at me, and when she hands me the towel she just wiped with, she intentionally brushes her fingers against mine. Goading me.

I snap back to attention. Yes, the brush of her skin lit me on fire, but it reminded me why I’m doing this.

I have to be the control for both of us. She’s unruly and must be brought to heel. For both our sakes.

“Go wait in my bedroom. It’s across the hall from the bathroom. We’ll discuss the rules. Your training beginsnow.”

THIRTEEN

MOIRA

This.Motherfucker. Put. Me. In. A. Chastity. Belt.

Like I’m some goddamned maiden being kept in a castle. Except, you know, it’s sleek black leather instead of being all rusted metal and shit.

The smell of new leather is driving me nuts. Knowing this absolute menace of a man, it’s probably from some upscale kink boutique calledLuxe DomorExquisite Restraints.

But did you hear me? A motherfucking chastity belt!

Because when Bane said “training,” I was thinking… oh, I don’t know, some light flogging? Maybe he’d show me his favorite whip and let me ride the sting a little?

Butno. No, instead, he went full medieval dungeon master on me. And now I’m kneeling in the corner of his room like a wayward nun with a chastity belt on under my skirt while he—get this—writes his fucking sermon. By hand. In a notebook.

The scratch of his pen is the only sound in the room besides my shallow breathing and the occasional tiny frustrated groan that Idefinitelydon’t mean to let slip.

He doesn’t use a laptop, even though he can’t be more than a few years older than my twenty-two. But nope, Mr. Proper English Broody McPriesty-Pants over here probably thinks modern technology is somehow cheating. I bet he still balances a checkbook. I bet he?—

“Stop fidgeting,” he says, all calm and superior from his fancy wooden chair like a king holding court.

I make a face. A very mature, very respectful face. And then, because I have a death wish, I mock,Stop fidgeting, in the most obnoxious whisper possible.

His pen pauses for exactly one second before he resumes writing, like he’s tooholyto engage with my nonsense. Like he has the patience of a saint.

I can’t take it anymore. Forty-five minutes ago, this seemed exciting. Hot. I was all in for the game. But now? Now, I’ve got the itch, and Ican’t evenpretend toscratch. And let me tell you, that is some eighth-circle-of-hell-level torture.

The scent of leather clings to me, taunting me, reminding me with every breath that my body is locked up tight. I kick at the rug under my knees just to feelsomething.

“Stay still.”

Oh, fuck off. That’s easy forhimto say. He’s perfectly composed, his muscled forearms flexing slightly as he writes, his crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows, looking like the most dangerous daydream. Ihatehim. Ihatehow hot he is.

And I really hate that he’s right.

This isn’t just about control, Moira. It’s about trust.That’s what he said when he buckled the belt around me, his voice all rough and constrained. Like it wasn’t just me he was binding up tight.

It was so hot, and all I wanted to do was beg him to fuck me.

Which pissed me off even more.

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