Page 28 of Madness & Mercy
But all I can do is sink into the ache, the twisted pull of fascination and something darker.
I catch my breath, knowing I’m nowhere close to release. My body tightens in frustration. I grasp her hair again, my voice low and sharp.
“Get up. Now.”
Her blindfolded face tilts up, lips parting as she whispers,“Yes, Master.”
I don’t wait. I seize her by the throat, pressing her back against the cold wall, my grip firm but controlled.
“Don’t move,” I growl, my eyes darkening with hunger.
My hand moves to the wall, sliding over leather and wood until I find the riding crop. I pull it free, letting the weight settle in my palm.
“Remember the safe word,” I warn, my voice a low promise. “Say it if you want me to stop. Understand?”
A quiet nod, and then I bring the crop down.
“Count each strike.”
The sharp crack fills the room.
One.
Her body flinches but doesn’t break.
Two.
The burn spreads, a delicious sting.
Three.
I watch her closely, each hit marking her, each breath a silent surrender.
This is power. This is control. And right now, it’s the only way to drown out the storm inside me, the storm that only one man’s face can stir.
I wonder what he’d look like in this position—legs spread, wrists bound, defiant to the end. I bet he’d fight it at first, biting his lip until it bled just to keep a moan from slipping out. But everyone breaks eventually.
How much would it take to break him?
To make him tremble?
To have him fall apart in my hands? Breath hitching, voice wrecked, begging for more?
I snap the crop against her inner thigh, and she cries outsix. But I barely register it. My grip on the handle tightens. Something shifts in the air, sharp and electric, pulling my attention toward the crowd beyond the velvet ropes of the VIP section.
I glance up.
And that’s when I see him.
Across the room, half-shrouded in neon light and smoke, standing near the bar like he owns the place. Jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-buttoned, hair damp from the rain. He’s trying to blend in. It isn’t working.
I blink once, slowly. Maybe I’ve finally lost it. Maybe the bastard’s lodged so deep in my mind that I’m conjuring him out of thin air. But no, he’s definitely real.
Because when our eyes meet, he pauses.
Got you, cagniolo.
He doesn’t run. Doesn’t move. Just raises a brow, standing there like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
