Chapter 11 The Devil’s House #3
He withdrew slightly, then thrust back in, establishing a rhythm built entirely around dominance rather than any mutual pleasure, his hand fisting in my hair to hold me in place while he used my mouth with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew he wouldn't be interrupted.
When he finally pulled out, his cock was glistening with my spit.
“Tongue out. Show me.”
I extended my tongue as far as it would go. He gripped his cock and slapped it against my tongue three times, watching my face with the same focused interest he gave to everything he owned.
“Swallow,” he commanded.
I swallowed, tasting salt and musk.
“Now lick it from base to tip. Show me how much you want this cock inside you.”
I leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed and dragged my tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the thick vein that ran its length from base to crown before circling the ridge of the head and pulling back.
He groaned — a rough, uncontrolled sound that slipped past his composure for just a moment. “Again. Slower this time.”
I did it again with more deliberation, taking my time, and felt his hand tighten in my hair.
“Good boy. Now press your nose against the base and breathe deep. I want you to remember what it smells like when you're trying to sleep tonight.”
Heat crawled through my body in a wave, humiliation braided tight with arousal. I pressed my nose to the base of his cock and inhaled the scent of clean skin and expensive soap and raw want.
“That's what owns you right now,” Harrow said quietly. “That's what's about to split you open and fill you until you can't remember why you came here.”
He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat directly onto his cock, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, then used his hand to spread it until his length gleamed. “Lick it off. Every drop. And if you do a good job, maybe I'll be gentle when I fuck you.”
We both knew that was a lie. Gentle wasn't something Harrow kept in his vocabulary. But I leaned forward anyway and let my tongue trace his cock again, tasting his spit mixed with my own saliva, the deliberate degradation of it sending unwanted heat pooling through my body.
“Such an eager little slut,” he murmured, watching me work. “Look at you. Bound and desperate and licking my cock like it's the only thing that matters.”
He pulled away before I could finish and moved back around to my arse. “Now let's see if that hole is as talented as that mouth.”
He pushed inside in one long, unrelenting thrust and buried himself completely. The stretch was intense, bordering on painful despite the preparation, my body struggling to accommodate his size while he held himself still and gave me just enough time to adjust.
“Breathe,” he said. “Settle. And then I'm going to use you until you forget why you came here.”
He gave me thirty seconds. Then he started moving.
Deep, methodical strokes with his cock dragging against my prostate on every thrust, sending pleasure up my spine in waves and making my own cock throb heavily between my legs.
His hands gripped my hips hard enough to guarantee bruising, holding me exactly where he wanted me while he took what he'd decided was his.
His breathing grew rougher as the rhythm increased — harder, faster, the sound of skin against skin filling the room in a way that was both obscene and oddly intimate.
His grip tightened further as his control began to fracture at the edges.
“You feel incredible,” he said, his voice reduced to something rough and stripped down. “Tight. Hot. Gripping me like you were made for this.”
I couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. I endured the assault on my senses, the way he was splitting me open, the friction building toward something I had no way to control or stop.
“Going to fill you,” he groaned. “Going to breed you properly. Make you carry my seed home as a reminder of what happens when you show up looking like that.”
He thrust deep one final time and came, his cock pulsing inside me and flooding me with heat that felt like violation and victory in equal measure. His body shuddered against mine, his fingers bruising my hips, his mouth finding my shoulder to bite down hard enough to mark.
When he finally stilled, he pulled out slowly and I felt his release leak from my hole, warm and obscene, trailing down the inside of my thighs.
“Don't move,” he ordered. “Stay exactly like this. I want to see what I've done to you.”
I stayed frozen — chest pressed to the bed, arse in the air, bound and used and dripping — and heard him step back and make a low, satisfied sound in his throat.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Absolutely ruined.”
His hands spread me open wider. His breath was hot against my skin before his tongue dragged across my hole without any warning, licking up his own release with slow and deliberate strokes that made my whole body jerk involuntarily.
His hands held me in place regardless, fingers digging into my arse as he worked through me with methodical thoroughness.
“Stay still,” he ordered between slow licks. “Every drop is mine. Including what's still inside you.”
His tongue pushed inside my hole in shallow thrusts that made my cock twitch despite being spent, licking himself out of me with the same possessive focus he'd brought to everything else.
When he finally pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, I was shaking and couldn't have said exactly why.
He stood and moved behind me, beginning to untie my wrists with the same methodical approach he'd used to bind them. “Can't have you stuck like this while I clean up.”
The rope loosened, my hands came free, and I brought them forward carefully and flexed my fingers until the feeling returned.
“Stay on the bed,” he said. “I'll be back in a moment.”
His footsteps crossed the room, the en suite door opened, and the sound of the shower started up. I counted ten full seconds before pushing myself upright.
My phone was in my trouser pocket where I'd left it, and the mirroring device was tucked into the hidden compartment in my belt — no bigger than a USB connector, purpose-built for exactly this scenario.
I pulled it out, crossed to the nightstand where Harrow's phone was sitting, and pressed my ear to the bathroom door first. He was still humming under his breath. Still washing.
I connected the device to the charging port and watched the screen light up. A progress bar appeared and crept forward at a maddening crawl, filling pixel by pixel while the shower continued to run in the background.
Halfway. More than halfway.
The water shut off.
Thirty seconds, maybe less if he skipped drying off properly. Three quarters of the bar done. Almost there. Sounds filtered through the door — a towel being pulled from a rack, movement against tile — and the bar continued its agonising crawl toward completion.
It filled completely just as the doorknob turned.
I yanked the device free, shoved it into my pocket, set the phone back exactly where it had been on the nightstand, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in one movement, doing my best to look as though I'd been sitting there the whole time.
The door opened. Harrow stepped out with a towel around his waist, his hair damp and his skin still glistening with moisture.
“Feeling steadier?” he asked, moving to the dresser without looking at me.
“Yes, sir.” My voice came out rougher than I'd intended. “I just needed a moment.”
“Understandable.” He pulled out clothes and turned his back to dress, the prosecutor's mask sliding back into place with each item of clothing until by the time he turned to face me again — fully dressed in casual trousers and a shirt, every trace of what had just happened apparently filed and stored — the man who'd licked his own come out of my body had vanished entirely.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone dismissive and professional now. “And next time you're scheduled to clean, make sure I'm notified in advance. I don't like surprises.”
“Understood, sir.”
I pulled on my clothes with hands that shook only slightly, the adrenaline and physical exertion catching up with me now that the performance was over. The mirroring device sat heavy in my pocket, holding everything I'd come here for.
Harrow moved to his desk and began gathering the papers I'd been searching through earlier, organising them with the same methodical approach he brought to everything. “You can see yourself out,” he said without looking up. “Gerald will be downstairs if you need anything.”
I left, pulled the door closed behind me, and moved down the hallway with measured steps that gave nothing away, even as urgency screamed through every nerve I had.
My body ached in ways that would make themselves known more clearly in the morning, and I could still feel him—Harrow's release still warm inside me, Gerald's taste still coating the back of my throat.
Gerald was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression professionally neutral.
But his eyes tracked over me slowly, taking in details I couldn't hide—the way my shirt clung to skin that was flushed and damp with sweat, the slight tremor in my legs, the way I was breathing just a fraction too hard for someone who'd supposedly been cleaning.
“Finished already?” he asked, his voice perfectly polite.
“Yes. Mr Harrow was very accommodating.” I kept my voice even despite the rawness in my throat. “Everything's been taken care of.”
“Very good.” Gerald's gaze lingered on my mouth for a beat too long before he turned. “This way, please.”
He didn't lead me back toward the side entrance.
Instead, he moved deeper into the house, down a corridor I hadn't seen before, past rooms that were dark and silent.
My pulse kicked harder, but I followed—because refusing would raise more questions than complying, and because part of me already knew what was about to happen.