Page 31 of Enemy of the State

When he tugs my head back again, tendrils of saliva drip down my chin onto my bare chest, and I nearly gag again as he slams back into my mouth, battering against the back of my throat like a loose shutter in a windstorm. Tears track down my face as I choke on his cock for what feels like hours. He tastes like a delicious poison, one that I can’t seem to stop guzzling down, but that I know might kill me. When I finally glance up through watery lashes, I find him glowering at me.

What could you possibly have to be sullen about, Digs?

He’s getting his dick hoovered, and based on the fierce grip he has on my hair and the erratic cadence of his chest, his heavy breaths filling the air like a chorus of wordless praise, I’m doing a damn good job.

Digs’s body locks up, his posture going rigid, and I know he’s about to come. For the briefest of moments, I contemplate clamping my teeth down around his flesh, taking a bite of him like a delicious snack, but decide against it as the urge to taste his cum overwhelms me.

“Swallow, Lou.”

My vision narrows in defiance as his body vibrates slightly with mirth. “Do as you’re told. Swallow.”

Hot streams spill down my throat, and I swallow greedily. I would’ve swallowed, regardless of what he demanded of me. I’ve never been a spitter—at least not in this capacity—so when he slides from my mouth, I lick my lips, savoring the way he tastes.Like salty, powerful masculinity.

“This is where you say, ‘thank you, Louhi, for blowing my mind,’” I taunt him with a smirk while I stagger to my feet as he tucks himself away. His gaze flicks to mine and the stoniness there tells me that any gratitude is out of the question.

Reaching up, I move to unlatch the alligator clamps assaulting my precious nipples, when he catches my wrists. I eye where he’s gripping me, then drag my eyes up achingly slowly to meet his and tilt my head, my expression both a warning—or a dare—and a query.

The sharpness of his gaze never dulls as he simply grunts, “Don’t touch those.”

He quickly snatches the chain dangling from the ceiling, restraining me.Back to square one.

Sean

Slipping into the storage closet, I gather a few more items. Though mostly, I escaped to this room in a feeble attempt to regain my composure. It’s splitting like a glacial crevasse. I’m completely and thoroughlyfucked.

Leaning against the wall, I knock the back of my head lightly into the concrete. I shouldn’t have let her wrap those pouty, supple lips around my cock. I shouldn’t have fucking done it—but I did—and now I’ll never be able to erase the memory of the way she looked on her knees.

As incredible as it was to see her choke on my cock with tears streaming down her cheeks, I couldn’t help but imagine what she’d look like all done up with pretty crimson-painted lips wrapped around me. I want to see that solely for the opportunity to mess it all up, smearing her lipstick and mascara while she sputters as I fuck her face. I want to cut off her air and have those dark-rimmed eyes pleading with me to let her breathe, but I won’t acquiesce. I’ll hold out until she’s on the verge of passing out, and only after I come down her hot throat will she be allowed the oxygen she’ll crave.

Yeah, I’m totally fucked.

There’s no future for the two of us. There’s no version where she’s choking on my cock of her own free will in my fucking house,even if I, selfishly, want that. Nothing good can come of these thoughts.

I really shouldn’t be doing this, and I shouldn’t be imagining her outside of these walls.

I scrub a hand over my masked face. I’m not naïve to the fact that there are prisoners here who get assaulted and raped, despite my zero-tolerance policy regarding my guys poking their dicks anywhere near the prisoners. Unfortunately, I’m not omniscient and can’t be everywhere, monitoring everyone at all times. It goes without saying that what I’m doing here is against the unwritten rules, not to mention myownrules. I’ve never forced a prisoner to suck my dick. That’s not me, but fuck, itisme where Lou is concerned. I’m becoming unrecognizable to myself.

Now that I’ve come, I’ve calmed down a notch. Not much, but a little. Enough to keep the darkness at bay…for now. Shoving off the wall, I reach for a uniform from the stack on the shelf and stalk back to the beauty waiting for me in the next room.

She’s like a damn magnet; I can’t stay away. Like a mythical siren, she calls to me, luring me closer, and I’m powerless to stop that inevitable draw, so my only choice is to lean into it.

Her nipples must be in agony by now, and after tossing the uniform on the lid of the bin, I eat up the short distance between us and tug on the chain between them. She growls, the sound low and feminine, shooting straight to my hardening cock. Smirking behind my mask, I circle her like the prey she is right now.

I like having her tied up for me like this. It’s superior to the cross in many ways, but I mostly appreciate the completely unobstructed access to her body.

Behind her, I trail a hand over the velvety soft skin of her shoulders and down her spine. Brushing her short sable hair to the side, I dip my head into the space where her neck meets her shoulder before skating both hands over the globes of her perfect ass and around to the front of her thighs. I inhale her sultry, brisk scent,breathing deeply, the smell reminding me of a snowy winter’s day. Even through the grime and sweat tacked to her skin, she smells so fucking good. I’d maim and kill to be able to lick a stripe up the column of her delicate throat to see if she tasted like that too.

She hisses a breath as I continue my in-depth inspection. Walking around the side opposite her snake tattoo, I find an ancient scar between two of her ribs about the dimensions of a knife, and I bark, “Who stabbed you?”

“A bloody prat.”

When I don’t respond, she clarifies, “A moron.”

I snort, knowing better than to think she’d have given me a name. There’s another faint scar several inches below the knife wound, this one longer,slithering around her side. It looks as though it might’ve been left by a whip, and I’m not sure how I haven’t noticed it until now. I gingerly run a finger over the mystery scar, as I inquire, “What happened here?”

“Something best forgotten,” she muses. It’s perhaps the most honest thing she’s said and something about that hits me like a bullet to the chest. It’s clear that whatever—whoever—is responsible for leaving this scar is a part of her past that she’s not willing to revisit. For some bizarre reason that I choose not to analyze, I don’t push it.

Standing in front of her again, I trace the intricate lines of her tattoo twisting up her torso. When the ink disappears beneath herbreast, I cup her, squeezing as she fills my palm. With my other hand, I unclamp the clip and she cries out, a tear sliding out from the corner of her eye. I grow harder at the sight.

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