Page 34 of Jewel of the Assassin
I drag the ice pick lower, between her ribs now, not enough to break skin “You were made to be tasted, Valentina. Studied. Worshipped.”
When she tries to speak, I poise the pick along the swell of her breast. A shallow prick blooms red beneath. Her lips part.
“Shh,” I whisper. “Did I ask you to speak?”
She shakes her head, lips trembling.
I reward her with a kiss—open-mouthed, slow, filthy. My teeth graze her lower lip, then her throat. Her body writhes beneath me, her cunt and ass clenching helplessly around the plugs.
She’s trying to obey. But her body is betraying her. She shudders beneath me, a flush spreading. The drug is working. She’s drifting, floating—just enough to make her unsure where her body ends and mine begins. But the pain keeps her present. Good.
“I told you,” I murmur, dipping my head toward the tiny blood-welled nick on her breast. “You were made to be tasted.”
I lower my mouth to the wound and drag my tongue over the surface, tasting her blood like a fine wine. Her nipples harden.
“This is course one.” I brush a fresh streak of wax just beside the wound. “Blood and fire. Pain and devotion.”
She moans—too soft to trigger the punishment probe. But close.
I move lower. Let my mouth ghost over the swell of her breast, not kissing yet, just letting my breath brush the damp peaks. I reach into the bedside tray and pull out a silver instrument: a flat glass wand soaked in crushed mint oil and chilled in ice water. I drag it slowly across her nipple.
She hisses—then shuts her mouth, jaw tightening.
“That’s better,” I murmur. “Restraint looks good on you.”
I close my mouth over her nipple, sucking slowly, then harder—until she arches off the bed and nearly jerks her arms. A warning light flashes on the pulse monitor. She’s barely holding on.
Good. I want her on the brink. I want her feral with control.
I want her complete surrender until she wants nothing more than to please me, submit to me, shatter for me.
I shift between her thighs now. Her scent rises, thick and slick with need. She’s soaked, swollen. For a moment, I train the tip of the ice pick along her clit, circling with delicate precision. Enough for her chest to heave and her center to clench around the probe. It delivers a low shock, but she works to soften her muscles while I stimulate her clit.
“Course two. Obedience with a side of humiliation.”
I slide the plug out slowly. Let her feel the stretch, the retreat. Her drenched cunt squelches, unable to control the fluids from seeping. She whimpers.
I lean in. Let my tongue graze her opening. Just a breath. “You taste like surrender.”
Then I devour her like a man studying scripture. I flatten my tongue, lick from base to clit, then suck her clit intomy mouth with bruising precision. Her legs try to tighten—tied too wide to move—but her core clenches.
I stop just before she peaks. She bites down on her lip, cutting the flesh.
Then, a fresh jolt rips through her from the probe in her ass. She cries out, back arching, every muscle going taut. Tremors erupt in her limbs as the probe shocks her, but she’s floating high on the endorphins and the orgasm ripping through her body.
She came without permission.
I rise slowly, staring down at her flushed, shaking, guilty body.
“Such a shame.” I retrieve the ice pick. “We were just getting started.”
She goes still beneath me. Too still.
I peel away the blindfold, revealing closed eyes and red cheeks. When I tilt her face toward the candlelight, her lashes don’t flutter. Her breath comes slow and steady.
“Valentina?” I murmur, brushing her temple with the backs of my fingers. No response.
My little queen has surrendered harder than I anticipated. The hallucinogens, the overstimulation, the shock—she’s not broken. Just floating.
