Page 44 of Twisted Enemy
The word tastes like shite. But Cole’s fingers close around my arm, pulling me to my feet. He marches me down the hall, toward the door and the stairs and the room filled with all his instruments of pain.
Leaning close to my ear, he growls, “Say red, and I’ll stop.”
I shudder and clamp my lips together.
He folds his arms over his chest and says, “Go on then. Strip.”
“Yes, Master.” The word comes more easily this time. It’s simple, with Cole. It’s right.
I don’t think about my clothes, about removing them in any special order, about looking sexy or smart. My goal is to fulfill Cole’s command without delay, and I don’t pause until my knickers are off, until my naked belly rises and falls with my far-too-rapid breath.
“On the bed,” he says, nodding toward the huge mattress. “On your back. Legs spread.”
“Yes, Master.” I don’t have to think. Don’t have to question. I understand exactly what I’m meant to do.
He crosses to the armoire and retrieves two lengths of rope. My left foot trembles as he lashes my ankle to the bedpost. He pulls my right foot hard, forcing me to splay my legs.
“Eyes on me,” he orders. I didn’t realize they’d closed.
I watch him move to the wall then, to a panel next to the light switch. His fingers skate over a control board until he nods with satisfaction. When he comes back to the bed, he spares me a gloating smile.
“Cameras,” he says, pointing at four dark eyes embedded in the ceiling. “Motion activated.”
“No!” I cover myself with my fingers, a hot flush spreading from my cheeks to my chest to my toes.
“Yes,” he says.
“You can’t—” I start to protest, but the words die, because he can. Hehas.“I didn’t agree—” I try again, but Idid, the moment I called him Master.“I…”
I can stop this. I can shut down the cameras with a single word—red.
But I don’t.
“Eyes,” Cole says, and I realize I’ve closed mine again.
It takes me a moment, but I manage to meet his animal gaze. His lips twist up, just a little. “Come,” he says.
I don’t understand. “M— master?” I ask.
“Make yourself come.”
I’ve touched myself plenty of times—quick, rushed work to meet my body’s basic needs. But I’ve never found my folds so wet. My clit has never been this hot. I’ve never shivered so hard as I sink a finger deep inside.
“Eyes,” he snaps one more time.
I open them again. I force myself to meet his gaze. I see myself as he must see me—tied up, drenched, trembling with need. The cameras are capturing every second of this. I blush all over again.
“Don’t make me repeat myself again,” he says. “Come.”
I rub my clit with my slick finger. Faster. Harder. It feels fine, like I’m scratching an itch, but my touch is nothing special. My thighs don’t tighten. My toes don’t point. I’m nowhere near exploding.
Cole studies me like I’m a rabbit caught in a trap. His head tilts to one side.
I catch my lip between my teeth. I change my rhythm: Scrape, scrape, pinch. Scrape, scrape, pinch.
Cole’s eyes narrow. He lowers his chin.
With the fingers of my free hand, I trap my left nipple. It’s soft, limp. I try flicking it with my fingernail, but that upsets the rhythm between my thighs.
