3. Three Choices, One Ruin #2
"You're not getting off until I come down your throat," he growls. "And when I'm done, I'm tying you to that fucking bed and making you scream."
Tears sting my eyes, spit drips down my chin, and still I take him—faster, wetter, needier.
And when he explodes, it's with a grunt, hips jerking as hot release fills my mouth. I swallow instinctively, not even thinking—just obedient, wrecked, his.
He looks down at me, chest heaving, cock still twitching in my hand.
"Bed," he says, voice dark and final. "Now."
My legs barely work, but I rise—still trembling, lips swollen, his taste thick on my tongue.
He follows.
Slow. Controlled. Like he already knows exactly what he's going to do to me—and he's savoring every second before he makes good on every filthy word he's promised.
I back toward the bed, heart pounding, thighs slick. My dress is still bunched around my hips, everything about me wrecked and wanting.
He doesn't tell me to fix it.
Instead, he stops a few feet away, eyes dragging over every inch of me.
"Take it off," he says. Quiet. Commanding. Like fact.
I freeze.
Not because I don't want to obey.
Because the way he says it makes my knees weak.
His voice drops lower. "All of it."
My breath catches. Heat floods between my legs.
I reach for the zipper, hands shaking. Slide the dress down my body inch by inch, watching the hunger build in his eyes as each new strip of skin is revealed.
Bra next. Then panties.
By the time I'm bare, standing at the foot of his bed, I can feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.
He steps forward, one hand grazing my hip, the other curling around my wrist.
"Now," he murmurs, "lie back. Arms up."
He pulls rope from the chest at the foot of the bed—like it was already waiting. Like he knew this would happen.
He probably did.
He binds me fast, wrists secured to the rings at the headboard. The rope is smooth, tight, perfect—like he's done this before. Like he's an expert at tying up women and pulling every last scream from their throats.
"You have no idea what you've asked for," he murmurs, working the knots precisely, like a man about to destroy a thing he treasures.
The rope bites deliciously into my wrists, bound tight above my head. My legs are spread, restrained against the posts. I'm completely exposed. Helpless.
And he hasn't even touched me yet.
Lucas starts slowly.
Not gentle. Not hurried.
He teases. Nips. Licks.
"Already dripping," he murmurs against the inside of my thigh. "And I haven't even told you to beg yet."
Then he does. His tongue. His fingers. The low rasp of his voice commanding me to say what I want, to own it.
"You like being tied up like this?" His thumb circles my clit—barely there, maddening. "Like being spread for me… knowing you can't stop me?"
I writhe. Arch. Moan.
"Say it," he demands, voice low and lethal.
"Yes," I gasp. "God, yes."
He smiles against me. "Good girl."
He doesn't stop.
He brings me right to the edge—twice—then backs off, cruel and precise.
"Lucas—please?—"
"Please what?" he asks, fingers dragging through the slick heat between my thighs. "Please make you come? Please fuck you? Please wreck you?"
"Yes," I sob. "All of it."
And then he ruins me.
His mouth. His fingers. His cock.
He fucks me like he has a point to prove—no mercy, no filter, no pause.
I beg. I writhe. I come until I'm sobbing. And still, he keeps going.
He climbs over me—his body a wall of heat, muscles tense, cock thick and hard against my thigh.
"You wanted this," he growls in my ear. "Wanted to know what it feels like to be fucked until you forget your name."
Then he thrusts into me in one savage stroke—and I scream.
His hand grips my chin, tilting my face toward his. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with hunger and power.
"Tell me you want this," he growls, voice low and deadly. His hips roll once—slow, cruel—grinding against my slick core, just enough to make me gasp. "Tell me you want to please me. To be mine. Is that what you want?"
I can't speak. Can barely breathe.
His grip tightens, thumb brushing over my lips. "Say it."
My pulse pounds in my ears, heat surging everywhere at once. I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't answer him. If I don't give in.
"Yes," I whisper.
He leans in closer. "Louder."
"Yes," I gasp, voice shaking. "I want it—I want all of it."
His groan is feral.
"Good girl."
And then he drives into me—one brutal, claiming thrust—and I'm lost.
He fucks me like he's etching his name inside me. Every thrust deep, brutal, perfect. He says things I don't even remember later—filthy, filthy promises—while he breaks me apart.
"Look at you," he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. "So fucking wet. So full of me. Your body's begging, even when your mouth can't speak."
And he's right.
I beg. I writhe. I come again—shaking, sobbing, ruined.
My voice breaks.
My thoughts scatter.
All that's left is him—his voice, his hands, his cock.
He keeps going.
Until I'm limp.
Until I'm empty.
Until the only word I know is Lucas.
When it's over, I'm shaking in the aftermath—thighs quivering, wrists still bound, breath broken. My entire body aches in the best, worst way.
Lucas lies beside me, propped on one elbow, watching me, heat still simmering low in his gaze.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't have to.
I've never felt more claimed.
And I know he's not finished.
Not even close.
But for now…
He unties my wrists, movements gentle. His fingers trail down the marks the rope left behind, like he's memorizing what he made.
He pulls me into his arms, settles me against his chest, his hand stroking my hair as I drift into the deepest, darkest, sweetest kind of ruin.
And in his bed, tangled in heat and sweat and the wreckage of what we just did…
I sleep like I've never slept before.