Page 77 of Endgame
I ache to bury my cock in her again. Over and over.
I’m also looking forward to her realizing how bare she is. That she’s bound to the headboard.
That her collar is still on her.
Eager to speed up the process, I adjust my hard dick in my jeans.
Her throat bobs at the movement.
Understanding dawns on her, and with it, a hint of terror slips into her expression.
Embarrassment too. Aurora turns her head away from me, sinking her teeth into her wounded bottom lip. Snapping her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes.” When she does, I press two fingers to her chin and tip her face down, forcing her to see what I made her wear.
Her thighs clench. Breath hitches.
A deep shade of red runs up her throat. Darkening her cheeks.
My cock jerks at that.
Humiliated and ruined, Aurora’s unable to stop herself. Her attention cuts to my jeans again.
“One night with me.” I let go of her chin, desire rolling over me as I watch her. “And you’re already such a slut for my cock.”
Emotions flash over her face. A whole rainbow on them. Fear. Lust. Loathing.
She’s an expressive one. An interesting one.
She’s a part of the worst family I’ve ever known.
I see the moment she chooses how she’s going to handle the situation.
I see it before the first bratty word leaves her lips.
“That pencil dick?” Her nose twitches with disdain. “Dream on, fucker.”
“Poor little rich girl.” She screams as I lean over to untie her left wrist. “Guess I’m not done teaching you manners.”
Her right wrist is freed too. I check on them regardless. Being inconspicuous as I run my thumb over each, once.
She can never know I care.
“What? Why?” More screams pierce my ears when she’s up in my arms. This half-naked woman’s limbs flail as I carry her to the bathroom. “What manners? Where are you taking me? Put me down!”
We’re in the bathroom when I do just that.
Dump her unceremoniously onto the floor.
Her feet barely touch the tile. My hand finds her throat before she breathes.
I groan at the feel of her collar. The leather against the side of my palm.
The absolute control I have over her.
“What do you mean?” she prods, her whisper choked.
This woman is intoxicating. Her fear. Her tremors. Her failed attempts at fighting me.
