Page 67 of Wicked Believer
And he knows it.
“How many times did you wish for my cock while I was away?” His voice wraps around me, making my pussy practically purr with anticipation. His gaze rakes over me as he wets his lips, drinking me in appreciatively. “How many nights have you touched yourself when I ordered you to be patient for me?”
I freeze, my face and neck growing impossibly hot.
I open my mouth, trying to find some excuse, but I ... don’t answer.
I wish I could be as bold as he expects me to be. To ask for what I want.
But no matter what I do, I can’t seem to make this ... this feeling go away. The constant shame that my father created in me. So, I do the only thing I know how to do. The one thing I’ve done every night since he first claimed me, broke me in two even as he put me back together again, until he made me forever and irrevocably his, even as he destroyed me completely.
I look up at him, willing the softness in my eyes to say it for me.
Conquer me. Claim me,I plead.Remind me I’m yours.
“Please, sir?” I whisper, my neck and face on fire with shame.
Lucifer smirks wickedly. “In the future, youwillask for what you want, or you will not receive it at all, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I practically keen, my breath hitching as he strokes that spot deep inside me again, the one he knows makes me come undone.
Seconds later, I’m openly panting for him, sliding up and down on his slick, coated fingers until my pussy is a wet, dripping mess.
The dirty little slut only he can make me be.
Lucifer’s responding grin is heavenly, sin and desire all rolled into one.
Already he’s won this round, and we’re only just beginning.
“Go to the playroom and wait in position for me,” he orders, removing his hand from my pussy only to lick his fingers clean. When I don’t immediately move, his eyes darken as he growls, with all the force of an experienced dominant, “Now, Charlotte.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte
I kneel on the floor of the playroom, my knees sinking into the soft St Genève pillow that’s been placed there for me. A pillow I had toearnduring the first month we began this ritual. I bite my lower lip, struggling to sit still as my anticipation nearly gets the better of me.
This is how he shows his love for me. How he claims me. Body and soul.
I clasp my hands together, trying hard not to move from where I’ve been instructed to sit and wait, unable to think of anything else but when he’ll finally decide to join me.
My knees will never forget the bruising in those early weeks, the tenderness they felt from all the times he made me sit tightwithoutthe cushion, but that only makes the comfort of the pillow beneath me all the more luxurious now. All the more delicious even.
A reminder of exactly how good I’ve been.
I hear his footsteps before he enters, the sound sending an echoing hum through my chest. I settle into my position, placing my hands in my lap and lowering my head like I’m supposed to. Like I’m a good girl.
Iama good girl. Only for him, it seems.
But lately I’ve ... needed a reminder of why I should behave.
I don’t allow myself to look up as he enters, no matter how much I’m tempted to. And I’msotempted that it feels like I can’t control myself. I’m obsessed with him.
And, at the moment, I hate it.
I hate him. I hate me.
Hate the version of myself I become when I’m with him, the way he makes me feel.
