Chapter 22 #2
The salty taste on his finger spreads in my mouth. In the past, I would have been repulsed by tasting my own arousal, but all I can think is that this is the taste of what we just did. The taste of myself. Of him. Of us.
I suck on his thumb, curling my tongue around it, explicitly showing exactly which one of his body parts I’d rather have in my mouth.
“Do you regret this, little ember?”
“I’m sure I will one day,” I say in one breath.
It’s true, I’m not dumb enough to believe this will solve anything, but I also know there is no going back from it. We will keep destroying each other, so we might as well enjoy it.
“But it’s not like that has ever stopped me before.”
My voice is wrecked. My body even more so. But my legs are already parting again.
He grabs me by my ass, still sore from how tight my muscles around the handle had been. As he lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist so naturally, you’d think we’ve done it thousands of times. He walks in silence, with me still shaking in his arms, as he carries me out of the kitchen.
When he reaches the bedroom, he kicks the door open without stopping and lays me on the bed. My back hits the sheets, and he follows, the weight of him crushing the breath out of me.
For the first time, I realize I’m the only one naked.
His clothes are still on. All of them. The button-down is wrinkled, the belt fastened, and the trousers so tight over his cock, I’m not even sure how the zipper is not snapping.
I can feel it pressing against the soaked skin of my inner thigh as he settles between my legs, and the desire to have him inside me grows by the second.
I move my hand, trailing over his chest, down to the waistband of his pants. I tug at his belt, trying to release him, but he catches my wrists mid-motion and pins them above my head with one hand.
That might have worked on someone else, but not on me.
I shift my hips and use his own momentum against him. A twist, a push of my thighs, and he lands flat on his back with a grunt, my legs straddling his waist before he can blink.
His eyes flare wide, but his hands stay where I pin them down—gripping the sheets.
I lean down, brushing my lips along the edge of his jaw and kissing it.
“Oh, no, no, Professor,” I whisper against his throat. “My pussy might be yours—but every inch of your body belongs to me. Now be a good boy and take it off. All of it.”
What I love the most is how fast he complies with my request. Just like I allowed him to play with me in the kitchen, now it’s my time to enjoy his body. He lifts onto his elbows, never breaking eye contact.
His fingers work the shirt buttons first, undoing each, letting the material fall to the side. My eyes are met by the hard muscle underneath, skin radiating warmth, and a sprawling masterpiece of dark ink smeared across his chest.
I never took Azrael for a tattoo type of person.
“I did not expect this,” I say, letting my fingers trace every design.
“What?”
“The tattoos. Took you for a clean freak type of guy.”
“Not quite. And my tattoos are stories meant to be remembered.”
In the middle of his chest are two snakes: one engraved black as the night, the other white as a bone. Coiled mirroring each other across his chest, devouring each other’s tails, locked in a perpetual loop.
I pause at the center, right where the two are crossing each other. “They’re not eating themselves,” I say, more to the air than to him. “They’re eating each other.”
I look straight at him, daring him to avoid the conversation. “What’s this story?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“One can’t exist without the other,” he says finally. “They destroy each other to survive.”
“And you?” I ask, sensing this is more than just the usual metaphor. “Which one are you?”
“For you?” he answers. “I’ll be both. I’ll destroy myself to protect you.”
It shouldn’t sound like a vow, but it does.
This son of a bitch.
Two weeks ago, he tortured me—book definition—and now he is ready to protect me?
Only a dumb one would accept.
And only a crazy one would believe.
I’m both.
“Take it off,” I say, pulling myself back from spiraling into that train of thought.
One second later, the shirt slides off his shoulders, revealing more than just his chest. Tattoos everywhere.
And not just the snakes—those I’d already claimed for myself—but now I see the rest of him.
His entire body is a canvas of designs. Some symbols I don’t recognize, sixteen tally marks on his upper arm, four of them crossed.
Chains, skeleton ribs, everywhere just torture and death.
I stay still, straddling his lap, letting the silence thicken around us.
Could it be that the Professor’s past is not as black and white as I’d thought it was?
Maybe it is haunting him just as much as mine is.
For the first time, I see more than his mask, a glimpse of what is hiding behind his facade. Pain.
His jaw flexes when he notices how I look at him—like I’m trying to get under his skin, in his brain, and see what’s inside.
He breaks the silence first. “Make sure you don’t come just from watching.”
I smile, grinding down against his cock trapped beneath me.
“You’re not making it easy for yourself, are you?”
His breath hitches the second I roll my hips again, keeping my full weight on him as I have no intention of letting him move. Not yet.
“Pants. Take them off.”
He shifts his position under me, one hand finding his waistband. The loud drag of the zipper cuts the air, and he shoves them down, his thighs flexing hard to remove the clothing with me on top, watching his every move. The fabric moves, then slides down, falling low enough to expose—
Fuck.
Last time he was too far for me to notice all the details of his body. But now, up close, all I see is a piece of art.
His cock springs free—thick, flushed, and pulsing—from the restraint. Veins curl along the length, with precum glinting on the head.
I can’t help it when my mouth parts.
And he fucking notices it. One of his fingers moves back to my pussy, rubbing gently in circles.
The smirk returns. “Looks like you need it.”
I clench, but remove his finger and lean in, until my words are nothing more than whispers in his ear. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Might be true,” I lean down, “But I’m the reason you’re still not inside anything yet.”
And with that, I step toward the dresser, where my collection awaits. His eyes flicker with confusion, making me smile.
I open the top drawer, picking up the metallic handcuffs and the blade I keep for special occasions. At this sight, his smirk fades just enough.
I climb back over him—one knee, then the other—straddling him.
“Arms up,” I order.
The hesitation is there, and he doesn’t move. He will soon learn it’s way more entertaining when he follows my orders. I lean in, dragging the cold steel of the blade across his chest without making any cuts. Yet. Azrael should understand the weight of what is coming if he doesn’t listen.
That seems to be an obvious enough sign, as a second later his arms reach up toward the headboard. The cuffs click around his wrists, locking him into place—one side, then the other, metal biting into skin as I fasten him to the frame of the bed.
Finally, in full control of his body, I can start my game, “Now let’s make some art.”