Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
He lingers for a moment after, hand still resting lightly against me, like he’s assessing his work. And I’m painfully aware of how little choice I have in this.
He reaches for the buttons on my trousers.
“No,” I gasp, but it’s futile, he’s already ripping them open.
“No, not that—" I try again.
He pushes in closer until I can taste his warm, minty breath against my lips.
“If they’re going to kill me,” he murmurs, “then I’m going to enjoy what’s left.”
I don’t have a chance to protest before he yanks my trousers down my hips. I scream, try to, but it dies on the tip of my tongue.
“Stop it!” I force out instead. “Stop it, Deogal!”
He throws them across the room; attention already locked back on me before they even land.
“I am only a man, after all.” He murmurs. “And do you know what isolation does to a man, Doctor?”
His fingers grab at my ankles. They drag my legs apart without my permission.
This isn’t real.
None of this is real!
“Do you know what happens when a man is deprived of touch for...” fingers clasp around my thighs, digging so deeply that I’m sure they’re leaving permanent marks. He hesitates for the briefest moment before exhaling, his warm breath burning my sensitive skin.
“Months on end?”
“Let me go!” I try to resist, but my body doesn’t respond.
“When you’re starved and begging for food, but they simply laugh in your face?” He drops between my thighs, throwing them over his shoulders without permission. “And then—”
His voice lowers, turning quieter, more deliberate.
“Then just as it starts to break you,” he murmurs, “they place something perfect in front of you... and make sure you know you can’t touch it.”
I feel his breath hot against my knickers.
“No!” My voice is coarse from screaming. “No, don’t! Please—"
I can feel his burning gaze. Hot, hard, and violent, staring right at the wetness I just know is seeping through, betraying me.
“I need to eat. Just like the rest of you.” He hums, the sounds lingering far too long in my mind.
My body responds even though my mind is screaming. My nipples pebble, hard and desperate, as if reaching out to touch him. They strain painfully.
Wake up.
Wake the fuck up.
My mind screams.
Desperation claws at me. I try to close my thighs but it’s impossible, he’s far too strong. I scream and scratch and squirm, but nothing changes. I’m still stuck here, spread open for him, still like a fucking doll.
He pushes forward. He’s so close. And, God, I know what’s going to happen next—
I cry out, the sound torn from me before I can stop it. His lips connect with my sex, unhurried, his presence overwhelming even through the barrier of fabric.
A sharp, involuntary pull low in my stomach, heat flaring, building—each shift more intense than the last. I try to twist away, to escape it, but nothing answers.
He just keeps going, his tongue flicking against the spot that makes me squirm, relentless in a way that feels less like desire and more like ownership—like he’s proving something, taking something, dragging the reaction out of me piece by piece.
And I can’t do anything but take it.
Scream, Rheda. I beg. Get him to stop!
The sensation is impossible to ignore. It floods through me, sharp and consuming, blurring the edges of everything I know should be steady. It feels real. Too real.
My breath stutters, breaks, and something dangerously close to surrender edges in before I can stop it. The awareness of it, of how easily I’m being pulled under, only makes it worse.
“Don’t!” I finally find my voice. “Stop!”
“Don’t stop?” He teases, lips pressing against my bundle of nerves.
His lips find my sex again, and I scream in pleasure. His finger finds my tight hole. I clench up as if that could keep him out, but it doesn’t work. With a dark chuckle, he pushes it in slowly, all the way to the knuckle.
My mouth falls open, tears pricking in my eyes.
“God, Doctor.” He groans. “You’re so tight.”
His lips return to my clit. “And you taste so fucking good.”
He curls it without warning, and...
Oh, fuck.
I moan.
I shake.
I can’t stop myself—
Pleasure tears through me, and I can’t hold back any longer. I explode hard. My orgasm dominates me, and he doesn’t stop. Over and over, he forces the waves of ecstasy to burn through my shaking body. I bite my scream into my lower lip until the blood swarms around my mind.
“That’s a good girl.” He doesn’t stop. His mouth brushes me again, once, slow and deliberate, and my legs betray me. I tremble. Just as it crests into something unbearable, he eases back, not far, just enough to remind me he’s choosing this. Choosing when.
He pulls away without warning, and the shift is so sudden it disorients me, like the ground has dropped out from under something I was already struggling to stand on.
There’s movement—fast, purposeful—the sharp sound of metal against leather, fabric dragged, discarded, the room changing around me before I can make sense of it.
My body is no longer where it was.
He drags me upward until my head tips back over the edge of the sofa, hanging, the rush immediate and disorienting as blood floods upward.
I try to correct it. I can’t.
My mouth parts on instinct, just to breathe, just to steady something, and his hand is there instantly, fingers pressing into my face.
A low sound leaves him—approval, amusement—and it sends a sharp, involuntary reaction through me that I hate immediately. Hate because I feel it. Hate because I can’t stop it.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice low, controlled. “Just like that.”
He steps forward, and that’s when I see it. His swollen penis, hanging like something deadly.
I respond immediately. It betrays me quietly at first—small shifts, shallow breaths, a tightening low in my stomach that shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t exist in this context, under this pressure, under him.
But it does, and he knows it.
His hand tightens against my face. His fingers squeeze my cheeks, and I’m forced to open for him in a gasp. He presses the tip to my lips immediately. It’s thick, smooth. I try to resist, but the heat is too much. Just as I start to close my mouth, a voice burns in my mind.
“If you bite me, I promise you, I’ll rip your virginity from you.”
I freeze, fear strangling me.
I loosen just enough for him to force the tip past. My jaw snaps open wide, far too wide for comfort, and the ache burns immediately.
“That’s it, baby,” it touches my thoughts. “Hollow your cheeks. Yes, just like that.”
The fear is replaced by something else now.
Need. Want. My thighs press together. He slips further into my mouth, brushing my teeth no matter how much I try to open wider.
I do as I’m told, my cheeks hollow. His smoothness strokes the inside of my mouth, the heat of him making my mind swim. He tastes amazing. I hate that he does.
His fingers curl around my skull and he holds me still like I’m just something to use. Then he thrusts slowly at first like he’s testing how much I’m willing to give him.
Too much.
I panic.
Too big.
My shoulders tense, a weak, involuntary pull away that doesn’t go anywhere.
My chest strains for air, shallow, uneven, like it can’t tell what it’s supposed to prioritise, air or him. It doesn’t ease.
He slams it against the back of my throat and tears sting at the corner of my eyes. The thought keeps circling, louder now, more frantic beneath everything else,