Page 40 of Dance of Madness

“Mmm, see?” he murmurs with dark smugness. “See how fuckingmessyyour little pussy gets for me?”

“It’s…” My breath catches, my body shuddering. “It’s notyou?—”

He laughs, sharp and mocking.

“It's just biology?”

A needy, achy, pathetic sound gurgles from my throat.

“Just as an FYI, this isexactlyhow drippy and wet your pretty little cunt got the other night, when I visited while you were sleeping.”

A stab of something filthy, wrong, indignant and achy slices through me.

“You made such a mess of your sheets when this pussy was wringing the very blood from my fingers. And that’sbeforeyou came all over my tongue and chin.”

My eyes bulge, my mouth opening in a silent moan as my body writhes.

My tongue and chin.

He didn’t just take my panties off. Didn’t just touch me. He went down on me.

While I was totally asleep.

It’ssickhow much that turns me on.

“Ahh, didn’t know that, did you?”

I whimper as his fingers suddenly leave my soaking pussy. He raises his hand so I can see in the mirror the low lights catching the glisten on his fingers. My face heats as he spreads the two that were just inside me, letting the sticky cream between them drip down his fingers.

My arousal.

My shame.

My dark, needy ache.

Then, slowly, his green eyes locked on mine, he brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucks them inside, and wraps his lips tight around them.

Sweet fucking Jesus.

Nero makes a show of licking them clean before he slips them from his mouth.

“Every bit as sweet and delicious as the other night, princess. I think you might be going on my permanent menu.”

His hand drops between my thighs again, and I cry out when his same two wet fingers plunge back inside me. He curls them deep, stroking my g-spot, making my thighs shake and my toes curl. My arms strain as he keeps my wrists pinned behind me with one hand, and I gasp and moan pathetically.Eagerly.

“Tell me you’ve been dreaming about the other night. Tell me you’ve touched your little cunt imagining me chasing you again. Pinning you down. Taking what I want as roughly as I please, and not givingone single fuckabout your consent.”

My brainscreamsthat this is beyond fucked up, and wrong on so many levels. That this man is a fucking predator, not a dark fantasy.

But the rest of me doesn’t get that message, or if it does, it refuses to acknowledge it. My bodycraves this. Reacts to it. Needs it. Demands more.

I can feel how mortifyingly wet I am around his fingers. I canhear it, for God’s sake—lewd, wet, squelching sounds fill the bathroom as his thick fingers plunge in and out over and over.

“Tell me,” he snarls.

I hate him.

I hate the way I brace my hips against the sink and push themintohis hand.

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