Chapter 41 Eliana #2
The cry that rips from my throat doesn’t sound human. My hands fly to his hair, fingers twisting in those blond curls, and I yank hard enough to hurt. He groans in happiness. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “Pull harder. Make it hurt.”
He’s burying his lips in my pussy, sucking, licking, slurping, consuming. I’m splayed wide on my own kitchen counter while my boss eats me out, and the only thing I can think of to say is:
“Bastian, I can’t—”
“Oh, yes, you fucking can.” One hand releases my thigh and I feel his fingers poised at my entrance. “You’re going to come, and you’re not going to stop coming until I say you can.”
He pushes one finger inside me and I nearly spring off the counter. My head cracks against the cabinet behind me, but the pain barely registers. All I can feel is him—his tongue, his finger, the scrape of his teeth against my most sensitive flesh.
My own moans sound foreign to my ears. Who’s that falling to pieces while their employer devours them? Not me, Eliana Hunter, right? Surely it’s not! It couldn’t be!
It is.
He adds a second finger and curls them upward. I writhe again, but he keeps me skewered in place. His tongue never stops moving, licking and sucking while his fingers pump in and out.
The orgasm builds fast and vicious. My thighs try to clamp shut around his head, but he forces them wider with his free hand.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls. “Stay spread wide open, little kitten.”
I crumble into a thousand pieces right there on my kitchen counter, screaming his name while he works me through it. Wave after wave crashes over me until I’m sobbing, begging him to stop.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he adds a third finger.
“Bastian, I really can’t take—”
“You can and you will.” His fingers stretch me, fill me, while his tongue keeps up that maddening rhythm.
“I can’t— It’s too much— I’m—”
“Now, Eliana.”
He kisses my clit at the same moment his fingers hit that perfect spot inside me, and I explode again.
My entire body convulses and I’m pretty sure I black out for a second because when I come back to myself, I’m flat on my back on the counter, gasping for air, wetter than I’ve ever been in my whole life.
Bastian rises to his full height and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are swollen and glistening. The front of his shirt is soaked.
From me.
“Look at you,” he purrs. His eyes belong to the devil, but he’s praising me like I’m an angel that fell right into his lap. “Completely fucking wrecked.”
I can’t form thoughts, much less words. I’m a puddle of whimpering satisfaction, boneless and trembling.
He leans over me, one hand braced on either side of my head, caging me in. “Do you understand now?”
“U-understand what?” My voice is hoarse from screaming.
“That you’re mine.” His thumb tweaks my bottom lip. “That every part of you belongs to me. Your body. Your pleasure. Your pain.”
“I… I… I…” That meaningless stuttering is the most I can conjure by way of a response.
“Say it,” he demands.
I shake my head.
“Say. It.”
“I c-can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. If I admit that I’m his, then I have to admit that he’s mine, too. And that terrifies me more than anything else—more than going blind, more than my mother’s endless need, more than the man who tried to shove me in a trunk.
Because people I love always leave.
And Bastian Hale will be no exception.
“Because,” I whisper, “if I’m yours, then sooner or later, you’ll leave me. And I can’t survive losing you.”
His face goes still. Pale. Frozen. Chiseled from the coldest stone. Then:
“What did you just say?”
Bastian’s hand shoots out, grabs my wrist, and yanks me upright. My head spins from the sudden movement, but he doesn’t give me time to recover. He takes me off the counter and drags me toward the floor.
“You think I’m going somewhere?” he growls as we tumble onto the kitchen tile in a heap of tangled limbs. “You think I’d do all this—risk everything, fight for you, claim you—just to fucking leave?”
“Bastian, I didn’t mean—”
“Shut up.” He shifts to a seat against the counter and arranges me face-down across his lap. My bare ass is exposed, vulnerable, but his palm is flat on my back, keeping me exactly where he wants me. “You don’t get to accuse me of abandoning you and then take it back.”
Panic flares as I hear him shuffling around. “Wh-what are you doing?”
His hand finds the spatula on my counter. In the corner of my eye, I watch as he tests the weight of it in his palm. “Teaching you a lesson.”
“Bas— Ow!”
The first strike lands on my left cheek, sharp and stinging. I yelp and try to scramble away, but his other hand pins me in place at the small of my back.
“Stay still,” he orders. “And repeat after me: ‘You’re not going anywhere.’”
“Bastian—”
The spatula comes down again, harder this time. “Say it.”
“Bastian, seriously, I—”
THWACK. Pain flares, hot and vicious. “I said, SAY IT.”
“Y-you’re—” I stutter as I wail out, “You’re not going anywhere!”
“Again.” Another strike, this one on my right cheek. The burn spreads through me, mixing pain with something else entirely.
“You’re not going anywhere!” I gasp a second time.
His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me still slick and swollen from before. He pushes two inside me without warning, and I cry out at the intrusion.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he rasps, pumping his fingers in and out as his thumb tortures my clit. “I’m staying right here. With you. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll take care of you.”
The spatula lands again, and this time, I moan instead of yelping. The pain and pleasure blur together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“Say it,” he demands once more. “Tell me you believe me.”
“I—I can’t—”
Another strike. Another thrust of his fingers. “How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, you fucking can.”
Tears stream down my face, but they’re not from pain. They’re from the overwhelming realization that he means it.
Every word.
Every touch.
Every spank.
Every brutal, beautiful promise.
“I believe you,” I sob as I lose count of how many times he spanks me. “I believe you’re not leaving.”
Finally, his hand stills. The spatula clatters to the floor. Then his arms are around me, lifting me, turning me until I’m cradled against his chest.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my hair. “My good, stubborn, infuriating girl.”
And for the first time in my life, I let myself believe that someone might actually stay.