Page 122 of Goldsin

“Make me,” he dares. Low and dangerous. His eyes are now the color of the abyss, the darkest shade they’ve ever been. “Tell me you won’t kill Victoria.”

“No.” I spit at his face, and the corner of his mouth twitches before a low chuckle rumbles in his throat.

Julian takes a step away from me, his arms crossed over his chest. If the tattoos on his arms could come alive, they’d devour me whole. “This”—he waves his hand up and down my body—“was an entirely altruistic act. But maybe I should reconsider my tactics.” His stare turns somber.

“I don’t care what you do.” I yank my hands one last time in an attempt to free them. “I just want you to untie me and leave!”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

He barely touched me, and I’m already squirming with need. Even the faintest brush of my skin and my body is ready to react. I’ve fantasized about Julian a lot of times in the dead of the night, but this is the first time I’ve experienced this raw need. My body is eager to succumb completely to his touch; to finally let someone else take care of me. To tie my hands and leave me just tofeelfor once.

“We’ll see about that.” His silent promises are loud enough for me to hear.

My body strains from holding its weight on my wrists and toes. The pain in my shoulders and my back calls for my attention, but I can’t seem to think of anything else but him. I feel like a marionette as he deftly pulls on my strings.

I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

He takes his shirt off, revealing his toned chest and the ink that adorns it, before disappearing into the bathroom. I follow each dip of his muscles, the ink giving depth to them, and for a second I forget I’m naked and tied up. I’ve seen him without a shirt so many times, yet it still irks me how affected I get.

I try to twist my hands, hoping to find a weakness in the knot, but all I achieve is grazed skin. Just as I hiss from the pain, Julian appears with a soaked shirt in his hands, beads of water following him on the floor.

He stops in front of me and in a slow act of torture regards me—every inch of my body—as he twists the shirt in his hands. Then I hear the snap of the material before I register the stinging sensation on my thigh, and a scream rips out of me.

The cold, wet fabric against my heated skin awakens all my senses. A surge of adrenaline rushes through me, leaving me gasping for air.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He whips the side of my ass next, and I feel a hot streak of pain go through me. The sudden shock tears a scream out of me before it turns into a guttural moan.

My body trembles and my fingers claw at the ropes as I try to even my breathing.

“Fuck you,” I grit out.

“Later.” He smirks then whips the sensitive skin of my lower abdomen, making me hunch from the surprise.

And the pain.

My legs tremble with each colliding lash on my skin. Waves and waves of delirious pleasure flood my judgment.

“Tell me, golden one ... what do you want?” he purrs, reading my mind, feeling my desire even as I fight it.

He moves closer.

“For you to untie me,” I croak, hiding the desperation in my voice.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

“Your body says otherwise.” Lost in thought, he traces a finger along my thigh. On the red patch he left on my skin from the whipping. “But I won’t give you what you want ... Not unless you tell me what I want to hear.”

“Never.” I gulp down the desire to let him do with me what he pleases. To lend him full control and see wherehe guides me. This is what falling into the abyss of pleasure truly feels like.

He just stares at me. Then, without warning, he whips my body again. This time harder. Faster.

Everywhere he sets his eyes on my body gets branded with the shirt as he flogs me.

Each hit leaves me gasping for air, craving for more as I slowly lose myself to the sensation, to insanity, as I keep my resolve from shattering. I clench my jaw, meeting his stare head-on even as my body trembles and my lower lip threatens to tear from the force I’m biting it with.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he groans, watching my every reaction through his hooded eyes. “Your body is practically begging for my touch, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

---