Chapter 22 #2
“Open wide, Red,” he says softly as he strokes the pad of his thumb over my trembling lips.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t maimed anyone with this one—not yet anyway.
” The twisted fucker gleams at the idea of adding to his victim list, and it should at least warrant a flicker of worry inside me, yet it doesn’t; this oil on water mix of fear and desire as they battle for dominance is a heady combination, coexisting elements that will never truly blend, intense in the way they heighten the moment.
I open my mouth, and he places the spoon between my teeth.
I bare down on it, resting my tongue under the metal length of it.
Satisfied with my compliance, Ezra hums his approval as he stands aside to look me over.
“Let’s see how well my plaything can follow orders; you drop that spoon, and I stop, you understand?”
“Uh huh,” the non-committal sound and the enthusiastic nod of my head is all he’s getting, my head swimming with panic and pleasure as I try to anticipate his next move.
Unsheathing the scalpel, he moves behind me.
The moment he’s out of sight, my blood pressure spikes, my heart pounding against my ribs as I tug against the restraints.
My mind craves the illusion of freedom—the reassurance that I can run if I want to.
But the truth is, I don’t want to run. I never will.
He sets the scalpel on the table in front of me. My eyes widen as the blade catches the light.
Wrapping my braided length of blonde hair around his tattooed fist, he pulls me up against his chest, manoeuvring me so I’m looking up into his face, leashing me with a makeshift rein like I’m a fractious mare that needs to be broken in.
I’m close enough to him that I can taste the malty notes of the aged whiskey in the air as his warm breath splashes against my cheek.
His taut jaw with his short beard is begging me to run my fingers through it, to grip on and pull his lips to mine, but I have no chance of breaking free of my restraints.
I question who is crazier right now because bound and at his mercy, with a spoon in my mouth, I’m wetter between my thighs then I have ever been before.
“Oh, what pretty eyes you have,” he croons sweetly, that fizzle of darkness still present in his tone. He gazes intently into them as he flips his coin.
Still held in place, I can’t see which way it lands as it clatters against the metal tabletop.
“I’m intrigued, Cara; what side were you hoping for?” he teases, and I clench my thighs in response, that dull relentless throbbing like an incessant itch I can’t scratch, as I rock my hips against the edge of the table, desperate for some friction against my swollen clit.
I want to tell him I’m desperate to look down and see the fallen angel staring back at me; a skull and wings that would usually be attributed to something dark and sinister is exactly what I need from him right now.
I remember at the last second that I can’t talk as my teeth clamp down on the spoon.
If I drop it, this all stops, and I’m not ready to have this end just yet.
Pushing me down so I’m bent at the hips, my torso flush with the table, I see the coin, just about making out the winged fallen angel at this angle; my sigh of relief fogs up the steel top, and before I can adjust to this new position, Ezra has his forearm on my back pinning me in place.
The first line he carves into my flesh takes me by surprise, my brain not immediately registering the pain as my legs shake.
“You won’t be able to sit down for a week,” he chuckles as he slices across my arse again.
I fight my body’s natural instinct to tremble, imagining my legs locked in place and concentrating on the licks of pain in the wake of each swipe of the scalpel’s blade.
“You still with me, Red?” he asks, drool running down my chin around the spoon, my jaw aching as I bite down in fear that I might drop it before he can finish his branding.
I nod frantically; it’s impossible to anticipate what he’ll do next—his fist around my plait tugs as pain prickles on my scalp, his elbow centred on my back to hold me steady—then more delicate cuts are made into my skin.
Not knowing what he is writing, I have no idea when it will end.
He could be listing all the ways he wants to punish me, and I wouldn’t argue; I may even have a couple of ideas of my own to add.
I try to talk around the spoon between my teeth, but all that I can make are intelligible whines and pleas for him to continue.
Blood pumping, shoulders tight, spine tingling, my arse almost numb, the pain of each tentative slice warming and oddly comforting.
“How beautifully your skin reddens under my attention.” He said he wanted to mark me, to claim me as his, and now I’m giving him that.
Little does he know, I think I need this just as much as he does.
Sliding my lacy thong aside, the rough material grazing the fresh cuts he’s made and making me wince, my hips buck against the table. Swiping his fingers through my folds, he inhales a sharp breath. “So wet for me. Such a good girl.”
When he removes his fingers, a whimper crawls up my throat, and I push my arse back to chase the sensation of his touch, desperate for the release he promised me last night.
I have spent the last twenty-four hours after being so callously edged to near detonation, and then refused a moment with my vibrator this morning, wondering what Ezra Wolfe’s cock would feel like buried to the hilt inside me—and if he makes me wait much longer, I might just climb out of my skin and torch this building to the ground.
Dramatic? Yes. Horny to the point of committing arson in frustration? Also yes.