Page 45 of Twisted Enemy
Cole’s tongue darts out over his lips. His nostrils flare, as if he smells prey.
Whining, I flex my hips, trying to find a better angle. I bite my lip, hard. I want to see his satisfied smile. I want to feel the world tilt out from under me. I want to do this right for the cameras. I desperately want to come.
But I think of what those lenses are capturing. I think of the landing strip shaved on my mound, a path of false promise. I think of my thighs, scarred from my years of cutting. I think of my flesh, mottled from exertion, from failure.
I can’t do it. I can’t find the nerves. I can’t locate the release point.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
“Please what?” he answers, as if he’s recording data in some clinical lab.
“Please help me.” My throat is raw. “Please touch me. Please let me come.”
He doesn’t move a muscle.
I remember the magic word: “Master.”
His trip to the armoire takes barely a second. I don’t have time to focus, to question what he’s holding. I see a flash of black as he returns to his position between my legs, and I hear a rush of air. I feel a stabbing icicle pierce my clit and then the flicker of wildfire.
My breath catches in my throat. My thighs clench. My fingers tighten on my nipple, startled to grasp a sudden pebble.
“Master,” I beg, because he’s brought me closer with one blow than I managed in forever.
This time, I see the riding crop slice toward my bare pussy. The leather tab lands squarely, like a magnet snapping home. Ice-fire-pain-joy ripples from my clit to the base of my brain.
My eyes roll. My toes curl. I’m so close now, so close, almost, almost there. “Please, please, please,” I beg, and then I seal our pact. “Master…”
The crop closes every synapse in my body. For one perfect moment, I’m suspended, utterly open, entirely exposed. Then I’m tumbling through space, hurtling through time. I’m desperate and I’m gasping and I belong to Cole, Cole, Cole.
He completes me. He shatters me. He gathers up all the tiny bits of me and builds me back again.
And all of it is caught by the cameras’ unblinking eyes.
I don’t feel him strip the rope from my ankles. I’m barely aware of him leaning against the headboard and pulling me into the cradle of his body. The cotton of his jet-black shirt creases against my back, and the wool of his trousers heats beside my hips.
His knowing fingers stroke my sides, but I’m too spent to respond. He shrugs, which pulls me closer. His fingertips read my landing strip like it’s a secret message in Braille.
My knees splay because I don’t have the strength to pull them together. He finds the liquid core he melted inside me and dips his fingers.
I moan when he taps my clit. I want his magic. I want to drink him dry. But I don’t have any power left. I can’t begin to stir.
He taps again, wet on wet. I murmur something that used to be a word.
He shifts his wrist, harvesting more of my honey. This time when he flicks my clit, I shift my arse, giving him a better angle.
He’s playing songs I’ve never heard before. Painting with colors I’ve never seen. He’s firm and he’s strong and he’s certain, and even as I gasp a new plea for release, he finds the perfect key, striking the note over and over and over again.
I melt.
My body is gone. My brain is gone. My soul is gone.
Cole Wolf has dissolved me. He’s erased my past. He’s eradicated my future—I don’t need anything anywhere anymore.
I’m nothing.
But I’m his.
I’m his, and I want him to be mine. I want him to feel even a fraction of what he’s given me. But when my clumsy fingers finally settle on his zip, he shakes his head, the tip of his chin brushing against my hair. “Not tonight,” he says.
