Page 159 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He blows a cool breath against me. My hips jerk.

“Say it.” He whispers, then flicks my center with his tongue.

The need splits me wide.

I nod. Hard. Fast. “Mhmm.”

Yes.

I would say it if I could. If I wasn’t gagged and shaking and unraveling.

“You’re so fucking beautiful gagged like this.”

He exhales—a sharp, satisfied sound—and then he’s there again. Mouth urgent, tongue deep.

This time, he brings two fingers. They don’t enter—just glide along the lips of my sex, amplifying every flick and swirl.

My hand fists in his hair, holding him there, begging him not to stop.

Pleasure builds fast. I ride it, hips rocking, breath ragged.

Just before it breaks, he shifts the bar, pushing it back, spreading me wider.

Then he sucks—hard.

I shatter around his mouth.

A strangled cry escapes as the orgasm crashes through me—hot, full, all-consuming.

My body clenches around nothing, the release sharp and breathless.

He moans with me, savoring every pulse.

As the waves ebb, he slows. Licks gentle. Fingers still teasing. Not entering—yet.

“You want my fingers, don’t you?” he whispers, kissing my thigh.

A soft whimper.

Then he sucks—sharp—and another jolt makes my back arch.

But he stops just as quickly, leaving me aching.

His fingers stroke over me—slow, methodical, maddening.

He kisses my other thigh, suction rough enough to leave bruises.

“You have such a needy little cunt,” he says. “Say it. Say you want more.”

Pride is gone. Shame drowned beneath the need. I nod—again and again.

“Say it.”

I moan. Garbled. Broken. But it’s there. The surrender.

He groans like it’s everything he needed. “Good girl.”

His mouth returns—tongue gliding, lips wrapping—and then, finally, his fingers press inside.

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