Page 81 of Stalked
“That's it,” he growls. “Show them how wet I make you.”
In one fluid motion, Vane shifts his position behind me, his hand wrapping around my throat from behind as he continues thrusting. The new angle allows him to go deeper, hitting spots inside me that make colors explode behind my eyelids.
His grip on my throat tightens—not enough to cut off my air, but enough to remind me who's in control. The pressure of his fingers, combined with the fullness of him inside me, sends sparks through my entire body.
“Harder,” I plead, no longer caring how desperate I sound. “Please, Vane.”
He responds by slamming into me with such force that I see stars, my vision blurring at the edges. The ropes creak with our movement, the bindings shifting against my skin.
A third orgasm builds impossibly fast, gathering intensity as Vane's pace becomes erratic. His breath comes in harsh pants against my ear, his hand still firm around my throat.
“One more time,” he commands. “Come for me again, wildflower.”
My body obeys, a third wave of pleasure crashing through me as my walls clamp down around him. I cry out his name, the sound echoing through the chamber.
With a guttural groan, Vane thrusts deep one final time, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me with his release.
“Take it,” he growls against my ear, his body pressed flush against mine. “Take every fucking drop.”
I'm floating—both literally in the ropes and metaphorically in the haze of multiple orgasms. Vane slowly, almost reluctantly, pulls out of me. The sensation of emptiness makes me whimper, my body instinctively trying to clench around nothing.
“Look at you,” Vane murmurs, his voice husky with satisfaction. “Dripping with my cum.”
I feel our combined release sliding down my inner thighs, warm and wet. The knowledge that everyone is watching as evidence of our pleasure trickles from my body should be mortifying. Instead, it sends another pulse of arousal through me.
Vane runs his fingers through the slickness between my legs, collecting our mingled release. He walks around to stand before me, brings his hand to my face, pressing his glistening fingers against my lips.
“Open,” he commands, his eyes burning into mine.
I part my lips, allowing his fingers to slide into my mouth. The taste is so good—both of us together on my tongue. I moan around his fingers as I suck them clean, watching his pupils dilate.
“That's it,” he encourages, pushing his fingers deeper. “Taste what happens when you surrender to me.”
I hollow my cheeks, swirling my tongue around his digits, making sure to clean every drop. The rope harness shifts slightly as I move, reminding me of my complete vulnerability—suspended in the air, claimed thoroughly, on display for everyone to see.
When he finally withdraws his fingers from my mouth, he traces them along my jawline, leaving a faint trail of saliva.
“You are fucking gorgeous like this,” Vane says. “Suspended in my ropes, dripping with our cum, marked as mine.” His hand moves to my throat, thumb pressing gently against my pulse point. “Everything I've ever wanted.”
And I can't deny that this man in front of me is everything I've always wanted too.
32
LIA
The ceiling of my bedroom has never looked so interesting. Five hours since I left Purgatory, since I left him, and sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, feel his hands, hear his voice.
My body still bears the marks of our time together—rope burns, bruises blooming across my hips, the shallow cuts on my hip and chest that sting when I shift position. Each twinge of pain brings a corresponding surge of pleasure-memory, like phantom hands still touching me.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me. The sheets feel wrong against my skin. Too cold. Too empty.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to the darkness.
I spent fifteen years building a life without him and convincing myself I'd made the right choice by leaving. And now, after just seventy-two hours back in his orbit, I'm lying here aching for him like a lovesick teenager.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. I could text him. Ask him to come over. The thought alone sends a flutter through my stomach that's equal parts desire and terror.
What would I even say?Can't sleep without you? Miss the feeling of being owned by you?The truth sounds pathetic even in my head.
