Page 362 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

Beg me. Beg to taste me, Alby.

I jolt, inhaling a harsh breath.

Whimpering at the cruelly seductive notes of Ezla’s voice in my mind, my hands clench on my thighs, and I quiver, trying to force the words out. Come on, Alby. Don’t let your fear control you. Ask for what you want, I urge myself.

But I can’t mess this up. I’ve never wanted something as badly as I do her, but my entire life, so many people saw me as pathetic. She’s never once made me feel that way, not even in the harshness of her training, despite my constant embarrassment, but I’m worried I’ll do something that will make her finally realise just how inadequate I am.

I will only be pissed if you do not beg to lick my pussy in the next five seconds.

I choke on nothing, drawing everyone’s attention and a sullen complaint from Tate: “Why does he always get to speak with you mind to mind? I want that.”

But in the next second, he’s too distracted by her hair to ask exactly what it is we’re talking about, though I think he might have some idea as he runs his hands through the glossy chestnut strands, thoroughly fascinated by the way it trickles through his fingers like liquid.

Everyone else stays silent, watching the exchange between me and our Bonded and giving me this moment, no matter any small wisps of jealousy twining through the room.

One—

My yelp startles everyone, as does the way I scramble forwards and grip Ezla’s warm thighs in both hands when she’s hardly finished the first number, heart rate skyrocketing and breathing no quieter than the stands during a Bonding Game. “Please! Please let me lick your pussy!” I blurt out, then continue, mouth moving faster than my brain, “I’ll be such a good boy, I swear! Please let me, Ezla!”

Everyone gapes at me.

Not blinking once, I plead with my eyes. I don’t even bother with a glance at the other guys, hardly feeling the humiliation I’d think I should be because I’m so focused on my Bonded, more scared for her response than I could ever be of anything else. She steals all my attention, leaving zero room for it to stray.

Her lips slowly crawl up into a wicked smirk, and my chest stutters. “You would like to taste me?”

Fingers clenching on her thighs, slippery from the cinnamon-scented oil, I nod my head frantically enough to make me dizzy, my erection trying its very best to poke a hole through the sinthine encasing it.

“Hmmm . . . good boy.”

Something like a mewl escapes me. I’ve never heard more amazing words. “Y-yes . . . I’m good. I’ll be good,” I stammer out, wide gaze darting all over her face as I wait for instruction.

Her pink lips part to allow her teeth to scrape along the bottom one, and my mouth opens further than it already had been to allow for the harsher breaths puffing out of me. “Yes—you will,” she purrs wickedly.

She pauses, purposely drawing out the suspense, and I instinctively lean closer.

“Pull my thong down, Alby.”

Shaking hands rush to do as they’re told; fingers curling around the stretchy material and pulling it down to her knees, a small sound escapes me at the increased sweet smell and the flawless sight I’m greeted with. She flips over gracefully so she’s laying on her back—

Tate lunges like a wild animal, reaching for her exposed breasts, which I can now take in properly with this new position, and I greedily collect every detail to keep in my mind forever, in awe of her, of those little turgid peaks and the dusky-rose areolas surrounding them, the mounds that are perky and firm and so soft-looking—

Ezla tuts as she snaps her hand out and captures Tate’s wrist before he can grab one of them in his large palm.

“Havoc, please,” he groans, voice gravelly, expression twisted in what I could only describe as agony. “Please let me touch them.”

“It is not your turn.”

“But—”

“Tate.” Scotty cuts him off this time, a stern expression aimed his way. “This is Alby’s moment, yeah?”

Tate slides his intense storm-grey eyes to me, narrowing them not like he’s angry with me but as if he’s at war with himself and figuring out something in his head. Finally he says, “You gonna make her feel good?”

I gulp. “I-I’ll do my best.”

“Hm.”

“Be good,” Ezla taunts in a way that says she knows she’s got us all wrapped around her little finger, and she flicks said finger against the sizable bulge in his boxer briefs, making him grunt and greedily shove his hips forwards in an attempt to get more from her. Pouting in a way that almost looks ridiculous on his usually intimidating face when she pulls away, he somehow respects her wishes and manages to stay put despite the obvious strain from tamping down his urges.