Page 112 of Auctioned

Soon enough, she’ll pay for making me weak for her.

No, I tell myself as I slowly descend the stairs, my steps loud enough for her to hear me coming.This won’t be a punishment. It’ll be a pleasure.

“Twenty.”

“No!”

Before I enter the living room, where the breaking and huffing sounds emanate from, I stop by my den. Open the ten-by-ten safe behind my desk, extract the item that was delivered to me this morning, lock the safe, and head out.

“The damn thing won’t break.” She’s completely in her element, focused on thrashing the metal fire tongs into the window. “This house is—Argh!”

It’s obvious she doesn’t hear me enter the living room. By the time she will, it’ll be too late.

It’ll be exactly the right moment.

I’m aware of how sick I am. How far gone. The flames that crackle in the fireplace—the ones I started before I returned upstairs to devour her—are a testament to that.

Nothing to do about it. No way to fix me.

Highly likely that neither Ophelia nor I are interested in that.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The other doors in the house are as tightly locked as the front door. Ophelia must realize it. She’s putting everything she has into bashing this window with my antique metal tongs.

I stroke my hard cock as I lean my hip against one of the leather couches. Six feet from Ophelia and to the right. Hiding in plain sight, where she won’t see my reflection in the window.

She’s breathtaking in her attempts to break free, as she tries to please me.

The muscles of her legs, back, and arms flex whenever she rears her hands back, then flings herself into the window. Her hair is such a beautiful mess from fucking her earlier.

This game means something to her.

Imean something to her.

“Zero.”

Her shrill scream is followed by the metal tongs landing on the floor.

“You.” She whips back to me, fire in her eyes. Red spreads across her cheeks. Her neck. Her tits. Everything’s on fire. Her hands clutch into fists at her sides, and God. Fuck. She walks backward until her back hits the window she just tried to break. My sweet little prey. “You cheated.”

“Me?” I push myself off the couch. Ophelia flattens her palms against the window as she walks along the wall. Away from me. Feeding my desires, my sickness. “I told you to run. Said I’d count down from a hundred.”

“Where would I have run? There’s no getting out of here.” Her eyes narrow as she growls the accusation. “You knew, and you let me try anyway. Is that why you’re hard? You get off on making me look like a fool?”

“You don’t look like a fool. And I would never. Come here.”

She hasn’t noticed what I have in my left hand. I prowl toward her, releasing the handle of the branding iron, only to throw it in the air and grip the center of it.

“Is this…” That gets her attention. That turns her flushed cheeks pale, making the blood smears on her cheeks stand out. She ducks to pick the metal tongs off the floor. She straightens her spine, wielding it at me. “You’ll beat me up? For failing?”

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “Of course not.”

“What’s this for, then?” A couple of steps back, and she’s near the doorway leading to the kitchen.

The kind thing to do—the decent thing to do—would be to comfort her. She’s desperate to be mine. Does her best to please me.

I’m insanely obsessed with owning every part of her.

---