Page 22 of Lethal Torture
Only he’s showing no sign of doing anything of the sort. And the more he simply stands there, his mountain of a body as immovable as the earth itself, the more it’s my own body melting into liquid desire, my own control that is slipping away.
His eyes bore into mine like twin lasers, and moisture slicks my thighs. My clit is so swollen it’s pulsing. And the way the pressure is building from the very base of my spine, I’m almost terrified of the force of the orgasm that is coming.
I can’t lose control.
Control is power.
I am master of this body,I tell myself fiercely.Master of this game.
Except I’m really not.
I want to drop my eyes to Luke’s cock. I want to pull it out of that frustratingly well-made tux and devour every hard inch until he’s groaning my name with his hands in my hair.
I want to drive Captain Macarthur so utterly insane he has to fuck me, deep and slow, filling me until I can’t breathe...
For a moment the sensation is so real I can actually feel it.
Oh, fuck.
Did I just actually moan aloud?
No.I never make a noise. My self-discipline is far too entrenched to make that kind of mistake.
But something happened.
For the briefest moment, I wasn’t detached anymore. I was somewhere... else.
I let my mask slip.
I know it did.
Did Luke notice?
The cameras are angled to catch every vivid detail of my swollen, glistening arousal, the throbbing intensity of my approaching orgasm. Even if the enormous screens are in Luke’s peripheral vision, he can hardly ignore the close-up images on them.
Yet he’s still just standing there, holding my eyes, his own utterly unreadable.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. Whether he saw behind my mask or not.
I need this to be over.
I want to hiss at Rocco to just get on with it, to bring the game to an end, but that would be admitting defeat.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
This game is already over.
And for the first time in my life, I haven’t won it.
Luke hasn’t moved. Nothing in his eyes, face, or stance betrays a single flicker of emotion. He might as well be carved in fucking marble.
He beat me at my own game.
The realization splinters the last of my control, and orgasm hits with the mind-bending intensity of a freight train at high speed. It is only the discipline of long practice that ensures I keep my eyes open, although my ability to see through them has completely left the building. It feels like every synapse inside me is exploding, a sensation so exquisite it’s almost unbearable.
Luke’s eyes are like silent witnesses, both impassive and intense, like he’s inside my body, riding every wave with me, yet also completely detached from the experience.
I force myself to stare straight back at him, spasming in utter stillness and complete silence, which somehow only increases the intensity.
