Page 50 of Their Cruel Love

“I know. Later, I’d like to hear you describe them in detail. I’m curious about why you think they’re connected to reality.” He gestures vaguely. “To here.”

“Okay.” I take a sip of water though it’s not my favorite beverage. “You’ve probably heard it all by now.”

The champagne is good. I had a glass each of two varieties until Razor frowned and waved away the rest. Making a fuss here seems…dangerous, and I will allow his interference. Just this once, I promise myself, though I know that if either of my men insist, I may be doomed to a non-alcoholic island getaway.

I’ve given them the controls to my body.

And now Marcus stands in the doorway, and the speaker says something inane that I don’t register but he gestures at Razor and me.

The vanilla crème brûlée that Simon spoons into his mouth, at the adjacent table, is making me jealous, but now he clicks his fingers, instructing his submissive to descend to her knees. I don’t remember this guy from my past, thank god, only from entrée when he leaned closer and introduced himself.

His eye contact as he reaches for his fly makes me uneasy. If I’m a voyeur…and I think I could get into it, this creepy man is still not on my watchable list. The waiter returns and deposits my precious crème brûlée before me then goes to Razor.

They discuss something I don’t catch because I’m preoccupied.

Marcus has strolled the entire length of the middle floor to reach us.

I incline my head and smile when he stops next to his chair. He greets Razor then adds, “Why is she still dressed?” as if that’s a given. He yanks out my chair.

Stunned, I find I’m holding the dessert fork as if it might make a nice weapon for disemboweling the man, then he scoops me off my chair. The fork rattles to the floor. Despite my squealed curses and wriggling, Marcus drops me onto Razor’s lap.

Instructions are flung and morefuckserupt from Razor, while my hands are captured even as Marcus acts as if he’s a god arrived to bless or chastise me. I stomp on Razor’s foot with my high heels, kicking and wriggling as they hold me down. Behind my back, metal ratchets down onto both my wrists.

Razor hisses. “Fuck, calm those heels. Or else.”

When I growl and buck against his arms where they’re wrapped about my breasts, he leans in and bites. His teeth sink into the muscle above my shoulder, lighting me with pain. That, combined with how he has me caught in the crush of his arms, and with Marcus noisily shoving back the table so he can seat himself on the edge to watch…

I fight for a few seconds longer, but every breath, every heave of my chest pushes against the iron-bar rigidity of Razor’s arms, and I shudder and give in. With the toe of his shoe he dislodges my high heels so that they clop to the floor.

It is not these men who concern me, though, it’s the others, watching us.

Bastion stands midfloor with his arms folded, lookinglecherous. I know him. He’s Blondie, the arrogant one who had his boot on the table at the frat board meeting, long ago, in London. He’s also the one who coughed up an invite to this island event to Sir Greg. And if he’s powerful enough to be the MC…my slightly random thoughts trip over each other. What is real here?

My eyes must have been darting about because Marcus says, “She’s worried about our watchers, and here I am drooling over the idea of you penetrating her asshole while I do other filthy things to her.”

“Fuck you,” I murmur. “Just…spank me or something?” I’m begging, but really this scares me.

He whips a napkin off the table and twirls it around my head, then knots it at the back into a blindfold. I can’t see anymore.

Strangely, within a small amount of time, it helps calm my panicking heart.

“We need to give them a show,” he says, whispering in my ear while he works the dress out from under me and Razor helps him. “You want this to work? Us investigating them? We need to make them happy.”

I get that. I see the logic…and also, he’s thumbing my nipple through the dress while Razor is now indulging his teeth with other pieces of my neck and shoulder. I’m getting bitten, everywhere, and my toes are curling. My eyes close, slowly, beneath the blindfold. I wrap one foot partway around Razor’s leg and hear him chuckle against my skin.

The dress is pulled free of my butt and Marcus takes it higher, over my face, down my arms. The diaphanous fabric ends up rolled and gathered at my back, above the handcuffs. Which means, I’m only wearing the bodysuit that barely covers anything important. It has no crotch, and one of themen is methodically tucking the bodice beneath my breasts, baring me to everyone in this room.

My clit wakens, again. Not that it ever went to sleep.

These men are demons.

Nice, debauched, fuckable demons.

Is it terrible that I want them inside me?

“Did you find anything at the ruins?” Razor asks, as if we are only doing normal things.

We’re not. We absolutely are not. He cuddles me closer, his arm around my throat. “You said I could fuck her ass?” He’s worming his hand under me, probing, tilting me sideways so as to make me easier to access.

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