Page 27 of Game of Hell
He gets the broom as deep as he’d like it and begins pumping it in and out of me. He spins it in his hands, stretching my walls to accommodate its size. Pleasure shoots through my spine and I moan.
“That’s it, Little Devil, enjoy it. Drown in the pain and it’ll turn into pleasure.” He muses and tightens his hold on the broom.
My head falls back and my sobs turn into moans. Each staggered breath that leaves my body he devours. He pumps faster and an animalistic growl leaves his throat.
“I want you to fall as hard as I am falling.” He whispers, the agony evident in his voice. “To feel exactly how I feel when you deny me. To have your body betray you, sinking deep into someone you don’t know—don’t want to know. I’m going to fucking destroy you.” His words haunt my mind like a plague; they're deep, real, sentimental.
I try to say something, anything—I gape at him like a fish out of water. My head reels with emotions and I find myself falling into them, letting him take my control.
“Use me, Little Devil. I’ve never fallen so hard that I’d be willing to sign my life over. Take from me until I’m begging for more.”
I scream out as the worst orgasm ripples through me. My walls tighten around the broom—I’ve never felt so full, so content. He continues to pump, riding me out completely. His chuckle is low as he spins the handle. My body shakes as I feel the plastic slowly sliding out of me.
“Being vulnerable makes you crash harder.” His chuckles are low and deep inside the mask.
I collapse against the chains and he lets me. His arm leaves my waist and drops to his side as he stands up in front of me.
He looks feral, demented beyond recognition.
“You took more than I could’ve imagined.” He tsks and lifts his mask up to his forehead.
He brings the broom to his lips. The handle coated in my cum and blood. His tongue flicks out and laps up my juices. Blood dribbles from his lips and down his exposed chest.
His hand shoots out and wraps around my throat, his eyes fluttering open. “You taste fucking delicious.”
I look at him, grasping for words. He slings the broom across the room and it crashes against the wall with a loud thud, but he doesn't turn away from me. His eyes anchor me in place as he steps closer to me.
The anger I was feeling at first has morphed into something I can't put my finger on, maybe love. I understand how he feels—we both want more from each other, but I'm not sure if this is the way to go about it.
“I still hate you.” I croak and he laughs. The sound grating as he tilts his head.
“Hate isn’t far from love, Little Devil, so I’ll take it.” I sneer at his words as he releases my throat.
I gulp down air and want to soothe the area but can’t because of my hands being tied up. I know I look disastrous, a complete mess. My hair sticks to my face and feels full of gunk. My body glistens with sweat, blood, and tears. I reek of chemicals and sex but Ronan doesn’t care.
“Can you let me down, please?” I sweeten my tone the best I can. My hands shake in a silent plea.
“I might later.” He muses and walks over to his chair, pulling his mask down over his face.
I can’t go an hour without being angry at him. Rage coils in the depths of my stomach and I feel I'll throw up any minute. My wrists are bleeding, my feet are numb, my pussy is swollen, and the cuts on my body are starting to sting.
“Please, Ronan, I’m feeling sick.” I beg, no plea. I don’t care how humiliating it is, I don’t care if I’m being pathetic. I can’t be up here any longer.
“Fine.” He huffs and gets back up. His steps are long and when he reaches me he unclasps the cuffs with ease.
My body hits the ground with a loud thud, not expecting to be released so fast. He pulls me up and carries me in his arms over to the bathroom.
“You’re pitiful, you know that?” He breathes into my hair and my skin crawls.
“And you’re an asshole.”
His chest vibrates with laughter and he disconnects our bodies, placing me in the shower. He turns on the water and it's cold at first before warming to the perfect temperature. He’s gentle as he cleans my body, never going over areas too roughly.
“Why can’t you be like this all the time?”
He looks at me for a second and then goes back to cleaning my wounds. The warm water and soap stinging the cuts.
“Then I’d be faking it. Every version you have seen is me. Me cleaning you isn't different from moments ago, it's just a way to say thank you when it’s all over. You did beautifully.”
