Page 49 of Bad Girl Dilemma

I’ll buy myself time.

Time to move the files. To reroute the triggers. To bury Ironveil and everything it threatens deeper than she can dig. Until the time is right.

Time to figure out how to protect her—from the Syndicate, from what’s coming, from herself while using her. Bending her to my will.

Because despite everything, I don’t want her broken.

I want hermine.

And she can’t be mine if she’s dead.

I toss back the rest of the scotch and set the glass down too hard. It cracks against the marble.

And fuck, I feel it resonate deep inside me.

She’s finding the cracks.

And I’m feeding her the wedges.

Dahlia

My hands are boundbehind my back, wrists tight with soft leather cuffs that creak when I move. Dante’s hand is firm around my throat—his favorite way to keep me still.

His cock pushes inside a pussy throbbing and sore with relentless fucking.

My safe word is a gauntlet writhing between us as his cock slams into me from behind, every brutal thrust a declaration, a punishment, a filthy kind of love letter written in grunts and wet slaps and the sharp sting of denied pleasure.

“Say it,” he growls, voice low and brutal against the shell of my ear. Sweat drips from him, down my temple to the corner of my mouth.

I catch it with my tongue. Moan at my prize.

“Tell me who owns this pussy.”

I sob, hips bucking back into him like I’m possessed. “You do—fuck—Sir, you do—please, don’t stop?—”

He tightens his grip just slightly. Enough to steal the edge of breath from my lungs. Enough to feel the many pulse points on my body.

The heavy chain attached to the harsh clamps spikes pain into each nipple with every movement.

The two beads deep in my ass that rub sublimely against the membrane separating my holes, making me see stars.

The thighs spread perpendicular to the waist-high bench he placed me on so he could fuck me like I’m his human fleshlight.

“No,” he says. “I think I’ll stop. You haven’t earned it.”

“No—no, please—” My voice breaks, high and wrecked.

He pulls out.

I scream.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that raw, desperate little cry I’ve never made for anyone else. The one that comes from the deep hollow of my belly. From the place he’s carved out just for him.

“You beg like a fucking angel,” he says darkly. “But you’re still just a greedy little thief. Always taking. Always reaching.”

“I’m not—I’m trying—I’m yours, I swear?—”

He groans at that.

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