Page 61 of Breaking Rosalind

Panting harder than a feral tomcat, he grabs the spreader bar and lifts my feet toward the ceiling. He stands up and secures the metal pole to a set of hooks hanging from above. When he releases them, I’m hanging mostly upside down with my legs spread, my head and shoulders sliding on the floor.

Cesare stares down between my legs, making my cheeks heat. The academy never taught me how to cope with this level of humiliation.

“Too low,” he mutters and yanks down a pulley that causes the spreader bar to raise my exposed pussy level with his crotch. “Now, let’s see what you’re hiding here.”

He snaps on a pair of latex gloves. “I was going to make an excuse about why I didn’t bring any lube, but it looks like you’ve produced plenty.”

Fuck this bastard.

He slides his fingers over my slit, creating obscene wet sounds that make me want to clench my teeth. This is insane. My body shouldn’t be so desperately aroused. Yet when his digits slip into the first inch of my pussy and move in slow, deliberate strokes, the pleasure electrifies every nerve ending, instilling me with shockwaves.

My muscles clench around the cylinder I hid in my vagina. I want to squeeze my eyes shut and squirm, but I’m frozen. Frozen to do nothing but wait for the inevitable.

“So tight,” he groans, his fingers still teasing my entrance and refusing to go further.

He knows exactly where I’ve hidden my stash, but he’s drawing out the torment.

“You look good enough to eat.” He leans close and inhales a deep, noisy sniff. “And your scent is mouthwatering.”

A pained groan escapes my lips.

“Tell me what you want.” He leans down and fixes me with a smirk.

I send him my most venomous glare. This bastard knows precisely what he’s doing. He’s getting me exactly where he wants, begging for his tongue.

Frustration builds low in my belly. If I’m going to die tonight or at some point soon after, then he’d better make it pleasant. By now, Britt would have escaped the cops or whoever else is on their tail, and she’ll take Miranda somewhere Cesare and Gunther will never guess.

His fingers reach down past the cylinder and feel around until he touches a spot that makes my body flinch. The movement is involuntary, as is the explosion of ecstasy.

“Do you want me to continue rubbing your g-spot?” he asks, his voice so deep that all the fine hairs on my body stand on end. “Do you want me to make you come hard enough to shake the walls of the truck?”

I want to tell him to get real, but the way he’s stroking over that spot has my eyes rolling to the back of my head. My entire body is a raw nerve, every inch of my flesh overcome with the urgent need for release.

Sweat breaks out across my skin and rapid breaths billow in and out of my lungs. I don’t know what game he’s playing or how he intends to win. Hell, I’d give in if it meant he would continue what he’s doing with that finger.

He slides another digit into my pussy and scissors them open, stretching me further. Pleasure mingles with pain, and I can’t help but moan.

Please... I want to say. Please, never stop.

His fingers close in around the latex sheath, and he pulls out the cylinder containing my decoys.

“How disappointing,” he says, his voice frigid.

The heat I felt earlier disappears, replaced with the cold, harsh reality that I’m stuck in a truck with a psychopath.

“Now that you’ve lubricated my fingers, I’ll search the other cavity.”

My breath catches, and I send every ounce of concentration to my fingertips. If I can make one of them twitch, I might be able to move when the time is right.

Cesare’s thick fingers press down on my anus, which is so relaxed that it barely offers any resistance. The stretch is incredible, mingling pleasure, pain, arousal and panic. My body gives into the sensations as he enters me to the hilt with those long fingers, which move in and out with a rhythm that matches the beat of my racing heart.

“I own you,” he growls. “Every delectable inch. Every hole is mine to plunder. Mine to fill.”

My breath shallows. I’m still so aroused from all that pressure on my g-spot that, for a moment, a tiny part of me wants to agree.

I focus on my fingers, my toes, my watering eyes, trying to get something to move. If Cesare continues this sweet torment, I might lose what’s left of my mind.

TWENTY-FOUR

---