Page 21 of Devoured
“I have a sixth sense,” he joked.
“Come on,” I said in a mocking tone, “This isserious, Roland.”
He shrugged. “I mean, it’s possible. Don’t knock the unknown until you can prove it doesn’t exist.”
What was with this guy? I sighed. He wasn’t going to give me a real answer, so I moved on: “Are they dead?”
“They’re something.”
“Did you know them?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I don’t understand.” I rubbed my forehead. “What happened?”
My stomach turned. My adult life had been simple. The Dahlia District had its own problems, but at least I knew what to expect. I knew how to help make it a better place for the servers, and that comforted me. Because I wasn’t homeless. I was in a place where people counted on me, where I was needed, and I trusted everyone to do their part. A place where men were the least of my worries; they were only club members or security guards. There were too many protections to keep them from getting near me unless I wanted them to.
And then Roland Price happened. Now, I wasn’t the scary dominatrix that could bend in half, but the contortionist who had sold out and submitted to a man, and then gotten abducted when she tried to escape. By men.More men. How had so much gone wrong in my life so quickly?
Roland moved closer towards me, his fresh, minty and masculine scent intoxicating, like spearmint and eucalyptus leaves wrapping me into his husk. The insects hummed, in tune with the electricity palpable between us. His gaze was intense, focused on me, in my sweatpants and hoodie. He held my shoulders.
“Be happy you’re alive.”
The smoldering gaze locked me in. I bit my lip. I didn’t trust him. None of this added up. But I could tell what he wanted.
I couldn’t do that. Not now.
Or I could… Make myself invaluable to him.
His eyes glittered in the night, following my body, taking me in. I panted, still unable to calm myself. His hands were on my shoulders, heavy and firm, but it wasn’t sexual. It was grateful. Protective. Caring.
Why did I want him? Whynow?
Because he had rescued me?
His hand cupped the back of my head, his fingers in my hair, inching across my scalp. So slow that I thought I might scream. Get it over with. Do it. But he played with me, one small touch at a time.
Fucking do it.
Without thinking, I grabbed his shirt, pulling him down to kiss me. Our lips met, his tongue, still deliberate, still slow, teasing inside of me. I rarely kissed—club members were willing to pay a hefty fee for it—so this was beyond the intimacy I liked to endure. His saliva, mixing with mine. His tongue against my teeth. The warmth of his body, his cock twitching against me, and his hands reached down, cupping my ass. A painful heat swelled in my core.
No. I couldn’t be turned on by him.
But I could do this. I could do what he wanted.
For the second time that night, I kneeled for him. He dipped his head back, that smirk dissolving into a raw hunger. I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. He pulled his cock out of his boxer briefs, thick, hard, long, pulsing. No wonder the man had such a big head.
I licked my lips. This wasn’t about me. Or him. I was doing this for the club.
I circled my mouth around the head of his cock, and he moaned, grabbing a fistful of my short hair and bringing me down until I gagged, choking on his length. He pulled me off and looked down at me, my eyes watering. I hadn’t taken off my makeup yet; my face was going to streak with black tears.
“Do you like sucking cock?” he murmured. As soon as I opened my mouth to speak, he thrust his hips, pushing down until I gurgled, trying desperately to breathe through my nose. “Such a greedy little slut.” His breathing grew heavy, hot air exhaling from his chest with ease, while he throbbed in my mouth. He pulled me off. Glanced around. Found a tree lying on its side. He grabbed me by the neck and brought me over to it, then leaned against the tree himself, his cock ready for me again.
He unzipped my hoodie, reaching up until he had a hand over my bra. My pussy clenched, and I closed my eyes. It was the club. His club.My club.Not him. Never him. But his fingers spread over my breasts, skimming over the bra’s material until he skimmed my bare skin. My nipple hardened in his fingertips, playing with my sensitivity. Pinching me, he pulled me down by the nipples until my mouth was back around his cock, and I worked feverishly, using my lips, my tongue, my throat to make him moan, to gain my power back. If I could make him come, if I could make him submit to his own desires, then I would have some semblance of power over him, as if it was never completely up to him, but up to me too. It was a wish I moved my lips for, a desire to do this. If only to show him that I wasn’t powerless. I was still a goddess deep down. Giving him my power didn’t erase that.
A throaty, primal howl erupted from him, and encouraged, I increased my pace, a thick vein rubbing across my lips. It was working; I was getting my power back—but then his legs wrapped around my head, pulling tight against me, pushing me down, his cock pushing past my gag reflex, my nose pressed tight against him, making it so that I couldn’t breathe through my mouth or nose. I pushed back against the tree, but he squeezed tighter, his thighs wrapped around my head, my nostrils completely covered, his cock swelling in my throat, each twitch making my whole body pulse. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t make it stop. He leaned down and put a hand on the back of my head, stroking my hair, not concerned with my lack of breath. Didn’t feel any sympathy.
In spite of myself, warmth surged inside of me. I couldn’t deny it. This feeling. This rich depth inside of me that knew he turned me on. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. Maybe it was survival. But whatever it was, it was a desire growing deep within me.
He moaned, then gave me two inches, enough space to breathe through my nose, then he pulled me down again. “You’re going to make me come,” his words were gravelly and erratic. My pussy tightened.
He pulled me down then, holding me in place. My face was wet against him, the mascara and liner streaking my cheeks, blotting his skin like a blank canvas. His hand was firm on the back of my head, his thighs holding me in place. He pulsed, that final climax, shooting everything straight down my throat, not allowing me a chance to refuse.
Even when I thought I had some power back, he showed me that I didn’t. He was the one in control here. Not me.
