Ares, Roman, Mickey, whatever he wants to be called, is absolutely stunning.
“You’re my pretty little toy, aren’t you?”
“What?” I gasp. The degradation should be upsetting, not making me wetter with each word that comes out of his mouth.
A shiver rolls through me when his tongue descends upon my entrance. I arch into his touch, my body set on chasing the high.
“I could do whatever I want to you, and you’ll be soaking wet, begging for it. Do you know why?”
Shadows fall across his face, accentuating the lethal edge of his sharp cheekbones. My hips chase after him when he tugs my soft flesh between his teeth. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, a whisper of pain, followed by a flicker of pleasure. His tongue plunges into my entrance with so much brutality that I feel the splinters of his sadistic movements all the way to the back of my throat. Then on the cusps of his torment, when I think I can’t take anymore, he kisses me like I am the most delicate thing on earth. As if I’m something to be cherished, but broken. Loved, but hate fucked. Pretty, but ruined.
“Because you’re mine, Bella. Perfectly made for me. My personal little princess to fill, to fuck, and to… eat.” He drags his tongue along my center, forcing me to shudder. “This pretty pussy of yours belongs to me.”
If he keeps going, I won’t have control over the sounds I make. My inner thighs are begging me to close them for a reprieve from Roman’s relentless attack. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to wiggle my hips away or move my legs to lessen the pain. He has me in an iron grip. Even if he didn’t, I’d still be stuck, legs spread wide and at his mercy. A pair of silken ropes wind around my ankles and the bedposts, baring my pussy to him and the cold air at all times.
The scene before me is concerning on so many different levels. The first is how he managed not to wake me while arranging me like a rag doll. The second is how hot my blood runs at the thought of him tying me up like an object designed to fulfill his desires, then eating me like I’m a delicacy to be savored. The third concern? The fact that I want none of this to stop, even though every part of my rational brain is telling me to say the word that will end this.
Even more messed up is that I might start getting excited for bed because of what might happen while I sleep. I’m his for the taking. He knows it, my body knows it, and it’s just my mind that hasn’t gotten with the program.
For years, he lived another life while I was fast asleep and oblivious. Whether it’s his intention or not, it feels like he’s telling me that he’ll always keep my bed warm. He’s shared the other side of him with me, and it’s as if he’s promising that we’ll do everything together. Maybe it’s all wishful thinking, but I truly believe that promise is our new reality.
Mickey’s hot breath fans my center as he groans, “Fuck, you taste so good.” I yelp when he bites the inside of my thigh. “I told you I’d make you scream again.”
“I’m sore,” I whimper as he continues lapping at me. It’s nothing more than a dull ache, but if he fucks me, the pain will outweigh pleasure.
“I’ll make you feel good, baby,” he mumbles against my wet heat, peppering soft kisses that are so unlike the vicious way his tongue moves. “Tell me what you like.”
I don’t need to say a thing because he figures it out himself, throwing me into a world of bliss. He doesn’t just lick me. It isn’t just foreplay. This is a ritual. He’s a god demanding servitude from his loyal subjects. He’s a puppeteer, pulling all the right strings to make me dance beneath him. And I am a willing victim caught in his net.
It’s not rough or gentle, but it’s consuming. My breathing labors, hiccupping and moaning in time to each flick of his tongue. He works his tongue in and against my pussy like I’m his death row meal; like he’s been starved his whole life. Mickey’s hands leave my hips, groping and searching my tender flesh until he finds purchase on the oversensitive tips of my nipples. I moan at the slightest touch to them, feeling the pleasure zip down to every corner of my body.
Then he perfects his rhythm.
And I’m a goner.
If I was in heaven before, the plane I’m descending to is a place no god or man could survive. There isn’t a higher being that could save me from falling from grace and into Mickey’s grasp. I scream while pressure blooms at the pit of my stomach until colors explode in the backs of my eyes. The sensations keep blossoming and erupting until it’s too much for me to handle. “Mickey, please!” I cry, pulling at the ropes.