Page 46 of Twisted Obsession
“Please, what?”
“Please,” I repeated, my cheeks burning hotter.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Please don’t make me say it,” I whimpered, knowing full well that he knew what he was doing. He was controlling me, making me beg.
“I want you to say it,” he insisted, his voice firm.
“Do it,” I cried, my body trembling with need.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, a cruel, teasing note in his voice.
“Fuck me.”
A guttural groan escaped me as he sheathed himself inside me in one brutal, savage thrust. His balls slapped against my ass, the sound echoing in the tense, heated air. I choked on nothingbut air, my lungs suddenly empty. I struggled to catch my breath, my body stretching to accommodate his size. He began to move, pumping in and out of me with a merciless, relentless rhythm.
“You’re so tight. So fucking perfect,” he grunted, his voice strained, as if each movement was a sweet, agonizing chore.
Each thrust pulled me closer to that elusive, secret spot inside me.
“Yes… Dmitri,” I moaned, my voice trailing off as he hit it again. So close. His rhythm became wild, uncontrollable, each thrust ramming inside me with a force that would leave me raw, just as he had promised.
Dmitri drove into me relentlessly, a piston of flesh and blood, never breaking rhythm, never hitting the spot that would send me spiraling. It was his cruel game, his method of punishment, doling out pleasure only to snatch it away, keeping me perpetually on the precipice.
“Dmitri, please,” I begged, my voice a ragged whisper.
His hand snaked around my throat, fingers tightening like a vice, constricting my airway until my vision swam with tiny, flickering white dots. His breath was hot on my ear, his voice a primal growl. “No one will ever touch you again and live.”
His words were a brand, a raw possessiveness that seared into my consciousness, even as his body stilled and his cock pulsed within me.
Stripped once again of my release, Dmitri leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in a ghost of a kiss.
“If you continue to defy me,kukolka, you will be denied your release.” His voice was a low rumble; a threat laced with a dark promise.
Frustration welled up, spilling over in a flood of tears. I was angry at myself, at him, at the twisted dance we were entangled in. Why did I crave his touch so desperately? I didn’t need him. I could find satisfaction elsewhere.
“I don’t need you,” I sobbed as he rolled off the bed, my voice chasing after him like a phantom.
Dmitri released my wrists, and my arms fell limp, like broken wings. "Your body is mine," he declared, his voice a low growl of possession. “You will not touch yourself unless I give you permission. Don’t test me.”
Before I could muster an argument, he vanished into the bathroom. I fumbled with the restraints around my ankles, finally slipping free and burrowing under the cool sheets. He reemerged, fully dressed and immaculate, as if the storm that had just passed between us had never happened.
He settled on the bed beside me, pulling the covers back to expose my naked form. Gently, he turned me over, and I hissed as the sting on my ass flared anew. He applied something cold to the burn, and I jerked at the initial bite.
“It will fade in a second,” he murmured, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles, rubbing the ointment into my flesh.
I mumbled a weak protest, but it faded away as his touch lulled me into a state of relaxation, my body succumbing to his rhythmic caress. Despite the turmoil within me, I felt myself drifting off, carried away by the gentle current of his touch.
His elongated, slightly calloused fingers possessed a rough texture that paradoxically felt far too comforting. I knew deep down that I should harbor resentment for this man, but instead, a complex web of emotions prevented me from doing so.
“Rest,kukolka,” he murmured softly, his voice a gentle caress. He leaned in, his presence enveloping me, and placed a tender, lingering kiss on my lips before turning to leave the room. The door closed quietly behind him, and the absence of his warmth left a void. I rolled over, burying my face into the pillow, and let the tears flow unchecked.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dmitri
The man whom Carlos had held prisoner had turned out to be a treasure trove of information. Though he hadn’t communicated directly with the mysterious gentleman who requested the diversion of our stolen shipment to Cuba, he had spoken with one of his associates. The prisoner’s lack of loyalty was evident, as he had no qualms about providing us with a name—Edgar Romanoff. There was no doubt that Edgar Romanoff was Russian. My next task was to uncover the identity of his employer.
