“Yes, she is,” he stated, spreading his legs slightly and extending his gloved palm toward her.
Heart pounding, she walked to him, putting her hand in his gloved one.
He tugged her forward until she fell into his chest, his muscular leg between hers as he sat her down. Lyla stared at him, enthralled by the lights reflecting in his light golden-green eye and the complete lack of reflection in the black.
He put one hand on the back of the couch, the other going to the side of her thigh.
A shiver skittered down her spine at the simple touch, and it made no sense to her how one man’s touch could light her up where other’s failed to even spark. Maybe it was because of their history, their connection, their twisted relationship. Maybe it was because she was a fool to feel safe with him, even knowing there were multiple people behind her. Multiple men in a small dark space only ever incited fear in her. Right now, straddling his thigh, she felt anything but.
He tilted his head forward, lining his mouth with her ear, exactly as he had the previous week, and calmly asked, “Do you want me to cut his hand off or burn it?”
Lyla shuddered at his words, and not entirely in revulsion. Something inside her, something dark and deranged, wanted to see him do it, see him sever the hand that had touched her without her permission. And it scared her, that side of her.
She swallowed, basking in the power of that choice. “Cut it.”
She felt him smile against her cheek, his breaths warm against her ear as he trapped her wrists in his wandering hand.
“Good girl.”
The words, soft, full of praise, coming from him made something warm flood in her system, her hips grinding involuntarily, her movement limited, controlled by his body.
“And how do you want him to die?” he asked, his voice low, almost seductive. “Should the Shadow Man do it from a distance? Or up close and personal?” He pushed his thigh up on the last word.
He was talking about real murder and she was wet, so, so wet, more naturally wet than she’d ever been in her entire life. She hadn’t even known she could lubricate so much, and the fact that something so gruesome was turning her on was disturbing. She was going to leave a spot on him.
“The slut is enjoying this!” The loud holler from the back made her stiffen, awareness falling inwith sharp blades on her consciousness.
“Shh.” The words whispered against her ear soothed her frayed edges a bit. “It’s just us. It’s always just been us. Focus on me.”
She closed her eyes and did as he asked. The noise of the club, the sounds of the men in the back, everything slowly fell away as she focused on the sound of his voice, the piper leading her to the cliff.
His nose went down the side of her neck. “He called you a slut. Are you a slut, flamma?”
She didn’t know how to answer that, the loathing inside her rearing its head.
“Do you like my touch?” he asked, his grip on wrists firm as he brought his other hand to her mouth, tracing her lips.
“Yes,” she breathed, his thumb dipping inside.
“If I pushed you down and filled you with my cock, would you enjoy it?”
Her pussy clenched at his words, the emptiness inside her acute. She gave a nod.
“Would you enjoy if someone else did it?”
Her body stiffened.
“Then you’re my slut.” His thigh pressed into her where she was empty, pressing her clit hard. “Mine.”
Even though she hated the word, when he said it like that, something inside her bloomed. She would remember it. Next time someone called her a slut, she would remind herself of this moment.
“Now, moan for me and I’ll give you a gift to take back.”
A noise escaped her lips, completely unbidden, muffled as he pressed his thumb inside her mouth while she rode his leg, her movement limited because of the tight hold he had on her.
“Good girl." She felt the words against her neck just as he opened his mouth. Teeth scored her flesh and the multiple sensations from all over made her neck fall back, her lips clamping on his thumb as her body shuddered. His teeth on her neck sent heat through her entire body, an orgasm surprising her with its intensity, the stars behind her eyelids so beautiful she chased it for another second, holding onto them.
This was precious. A willing orgasm was so fucking precious.
Tears in her eyes, she blinked, looking up at the high ceiling.
Awareness filtered in slowly, the sound of laughter and music and chattering, and she looked down to find his gaze. For the first time in her memory, the aftermath of an orgasm didn’t leave her feeling dirty, didn’t leave her wanting to rip her own skin open.