Chapter 23
VICTORIA
The edge of the blade slides along his skin, down the center of his chest, right between the mirrored snakes, pressing hard enough to make the skin split and draw a thin line of red blood, bright against the dark ink.
I shift my position, intentionally brushing my folds against his hardened cock, and that earns another grunt.
Nothing is more satisfying than seeing a man want me so deeply, and I can get used to seeing my Professor like this.
I move until my mouth is hovering over the cut and—despite that stupid inner voice that likes to judge me for my peculiar taste—I lick the blood from his chest, tasting him like he tasted me.
I’m past morality now, past guilt, and definitely past listening to my brain overthinking about Azrael. All I want to do is claim him the way he once claimed me. Mark for mark. Scar for scar.
The second cut follows the curve of his ribs, slicing just above his hip, making him hiss through clenched teeth as his cock jerks against my back.
“Pain kink,” I scoff, laughing it off. If anyone understands this type of pleasure, it’s me.
“Victoria kink,” he corrects. “You should see the look on your face when you use that blade. I’d let you cut me open a thousand times just to see your face lighting up like this.”
Oh my God. Is it possible for this man to be even more…irresistible? If he keeps talking like this, I have no chance of resisting him ever again.
“Who are you and where is my Professor that tortured me two weeks ago?”
“He finally realized that being dumb around you was the biggest mistake of his life.”
Finally, something we can both agree on, but it sure took him a while.
And if we don’t want that to happen again, there is one thing I think will refresh his memory.
I move the tip across his skin for the cut that needs more precision than my previous sketches.
I hold the tip of the blade and carve into his arm, letter by letter.
T. O. R. Y.
I mark him for what he’d done, for the bruises left on me, for the night spent bound and broken. I mark him because he is mine, and I need him to remember this every time he looks at his body—my body—from now on.
With the final piece of art done, I shift back, looking at the painting I’ve created. His chest is the perfect canvas, covered in ink and blood, and me, the artist.
“You like marking me?” he says, his tone almost amused.
“What can I say, I always put my name on my toys.” I give a casual shrug, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Now that you are done, uncuff me.”
It’s clear he’s not asking. He’s simply demanding that I do what he wants, regardless of whether I want to or not. And while listening to a man goes against everything I stand for, it’s pretty clear my own rules do not stand a chance against him.
I let the blade fall on the nightstand and move to the headboard, unhurried, undoing one cuff at a time.
The second his wrists come loose, his hand shoots out—fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my breath catch.
The other follows just as fast, on my lower back.
I barely have time to blink before he reverses us, switching our positions like I weigh nothing.
My back hits the mattress, his weight pressing into me, and when his eyes meet mine, there is no control left in them—just the raw, feral hunger of a man who has finally caught his prey.
The look in his eyes is so appealing, so complex, I almost forget his hand is choking me. The only thing that makes me remember is the way my body is gasping for air the moment he removes it and steps toward my drawer.
“Let’s see what you have in here.” He says more to himself than to me, rifling through my things. “Interesting collection. Porn as a side gig?”
“Like the idea of me sucking random guys off for a living?”
The shift in the air is instant. The light mood changes, and Azrael looks almost monstrous.
“How many?”
“How many what?” I ask shyly.
“How many before?”
“My body count?”
“So it’s a count.” If he was almost smiling not even two minutes ago, that had changed completely. I’m pretty sure that look is reserved for serial killers, but somehow Azrael has it. And I kind of like it.
“Forty-four.”
It’s not like I’m lying. My body count is forty-four. He just didn’t specify what type of body.
That did it. His face drops, and in under a second, he rushes toward his clothes, removing his phone from his pocket. I have to stop him from doing whatever he is about to do.
“You should really learn how to take a joke, because I’m hilarious. Anyhow, in my field of work, you’ll soon find out sex toys are like household torture devices. They make everything more interesting.”
He chuckles softly as his face relaxes. “…Torture?”
“Yes! Torture! As in you admiring some toys while I’m dripping wet. For fuck’s sake, choose something!” And I don’t even care if I sound desperate, because I kind of am.
His gaze flickers to my face, and a dark smile plays on his lips. “Love, that pretty mouth of yours will cost you, and I’m not sure you can afford the price. You can still change your mind. Safe word?”
“No need,” I say impatiently.
He takes a step toward me, catching my chin with his fingers, looking straight into my eyes. “Tell me how far I can go,”
“Surprise me,” I answer, my eyes locking with his, daring him.
His jaw tightens. “That’s a very reckless proposition, Victoria.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face.
He returns to my precious possessions laid out before him, tracing every piece of leather, silicone, and metal.
When the toys he chooses are placed on the nightstand next to me, my stomach clenches—Azrael is not playing anymore.
I know right here and now that I’m very, very fucked—both literally and metaphorically.
“First, let’s make sure you are not running away again. On your knees, love, turn your back to me.”
Do I want to tell him to fuck off? Yes. Do I do it? No. I just kneel on the bed exactly how he wants, like a good girl.
Immediately, I feel the cold leather on my ankles, tying them together.
“Hands behind your back.” This is just another command before my wrists are tied together as well.
Once immobilized, he embraces me from behind, his fingers tracing down from my jawline, down my neck, to my breasts.
His thumbs find my nipples, already pebble-hard from the anticipation, circling them gently at the beginning and pinching them a second later, a delightful tug that makes me gasp.
But that doesn’t stop him from keeping the pressure there, twisting just slightly, making all my nerves shiver. It is a delicious, agonizing torment, and I can’t help but arch my back into his touch, letting a moan escape my mouth.
He bends to whisper in my ear, his breath cold against my burning skin. “I haven’t even started, and you are already begging for more.”
When he pulls a little harder, increasing the pleasure by a notch, I’m sure I’m done, twisting against his body, desperate for release. But just when I’m almost there, he moves his hand away.
I should stop the madness, there is nothing I hate more than being controlled. But I’m also way too deep into it. Every part of my body, from my racing pulse to the wetness pooling between my thighs, is begging for him.
His hand continues to trace down my stomach, right between my legs, one finger slowly playing with my clit.
It’s torture and pleasure at the same time.
He knows exactly where to touch, and when to stop, so I won’t get what I want.
Just a bit of a teasing pressure that had me writhing against his hand.
Until now it was almost bearable, but when he slaps my pussy, I feel the pressure building.
“This is one.”
I don’t have to understand what is going on before I hear his voice reverberating in my ear and his hand violates my pussy.
“Never,” another slap, “lie,” another and I’m barely holding, “to me,” third slap, “again.”
I don’t think he was planning on letting me finish, but my orgasm is sudden and uncontrollable, drenching the sheets as I squirt all over his hand, all over the bed and all over myself.
“Fuck you, Azrael.” I almost scream, furious as I am.
Fuck. This is the last thing I want to happen. God knows this man is borderline OCD, and this is probably the last fluid that should be near him. But instead of repulsion, he chuckles.
“Little ember, it seems like we need to address this mouth of yours, it has the tendency to get you in trouble.” And he steps back to the dresser.
It doesn’t take long before his hand, still covered in my fluids, is shoving a rubber ball in my mouth. I knew I should have hidden this shit. But now it’s too late. Incapable of resisting, the leather straps are pulled tight at the back of my head. He has me captive.
“Now we can start. Remember, Victoria, you are the one who didn’t want a safe word.” He gently kisses my forehead. “On your back, spread your knees for me.”
It takes me under one second to obey, and I prefer to think it’s because of how excited I am and not because I am desperate. All this build up is pure torture, and I need him so badly I would do everything but beg for his cock to get inside me. Even begging.
Azrael grabs a pillow from beside us and shoves it beneath my lower back, my hips lifting instinctively with the new angle.
Not only does he know what to do, but he also knows how to do it.
It’s not like I feared the height difference, but there are…
logistic aspects. And with a gag forced into my mouth and my hands and legs immobilized, he needs to know what to do.
God, who doesn’t love a man who can fuck you correctly?
His fingers brush over my clit, sending a shock wave too brief to satisfy, as he grips himself, pressing his cock against my entrance—rubbing the head against my slit, teasing, smearing slick across flushed skin.
“Fucking dripping,” he mutters, like he’s proud of what he’s doing. “Should I wear a condom?”