Page 12 of Bonds of Pain
My climax is imminent and inevitable.
I squeeze my eyes shut, easy to do when I’m still pretending to be asleep, tears of frustration and unwanted pleasure leaking from the corners. I can’t fight him—not physically, not with the bond, not with my body betraying me at every turn.
Logan’s pace increases, his breathing growing ragged against my neck. “You know who you belong to,” he growls. “Bond or no bond, technicalities don’t matter. You’re mine.”
His fingers return to my clit, circling with maddening precision. The pressure builds inside me, a tidal wave I can’t hold back.
“That’s it,” he coaxes. “Let go for me. Show me how good I make you feel.”
I try to resist, to deny him this victory, but it’s futile. The orgasm crashes over me without warning, intense and all-consuming. My body convulses around him, drawing him deeper, milking him for everything he has.
The pleasure is exquisite and horrible all at once. I’ve never felt anything so intense, so overwhelming. And I hate myself for it. Hate that my body can betray me so completely. Hate that I can find pleasure in something I never consented to.
Logan’s movements grow erratic, his grip on my hip tightening to the point of pain. “Fuck, Maya,” he pants. “You feel so good. So perfect. Made for me.”
Anger rises in me like a tide, impotent rage made even more intolerable by my inability to hurt him in the way he has hurt me.
I feel him swell inside me, knowing he’s close to his own release. A sudden, vindictive impulse seizes me. If he can use my body against me, I can use his ego against him.
As he teeters on the edge, I arch my back and moan — loud and theatrical.
“Cillian,” I cry out, making sure his name is clear on my lips. “Oh god, Cillian!”
Logan freezes behind me, his entire body going rigid. The bond between us pulses with shock, then rage, white-hot and blinding.
He flips me over hard enough to make my head flop hard on my neck.
I sense Logan’s face hovering inches from mine, and I can only imagine the golden eyes that must be burning with fury. His grip tightens on my shoulders with bruising force.
“What did you just say?” he hisses, voice low and dangerous.
I keep my eyes closed, body limp, and my breathing deliberately slow and even. Hopefully, the perfect picture of someone still deep in sleep.
“Maya.” He shakes me roughly. “I know you’re awake.”
I keep my face slack, my muscles relaxed despite the storm of emotions raging inside me. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I focus on maintaining the steady rhythm of my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
Logan releases one of my wrists to grab my chin, forcing my face toward his. “Open your eyes.”
I don’t. Instead, I let out a soft, sleepy murmur and turn my head slightly, as if disturbed but not awakened.
“Goddammit, Maya.” His weight shifts off me, the mattress dipping as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. “I know what you’re doing.”
I continue my charade, letting out a gentle snore for good measure.
His hand slams down next to my head, making the mattress bounce. I still don’t so much as flinch.
The bond between us pulses with his anger, hot and caustic. I can feel his emotions battering against my consciousness—rage, humiliation, and underneath it all, a sliver of hurt that I refuse to acknowledge.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, standing abruptly.
I hear him moving around the room, the rustle of clothing as he dresses, his footsteps heavy with anger.
“Fuck!” he bites out, the word sharp and vicious in the quiet room.
The door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the frame, the sound reverberating through the empty room like a thunderclap.
Only then do I allow myself to open my eyes, staring at the ceiling as I attempt to keep my satisfaction from being felt through the bond. I meditate on the emptiness that has become the only safe place in my mind.
