59. Nell
I can do this.
I will do this.
These girls are getting out.
Cam’s across the room, methodically packing the duffle—holsters, weapons, mask, earpiece, combat boots. His movements are fluid, efficient, almost surgical. He’s in mission mode now—silent, calculating, mentally ticking through the plan he’s recited to me at least fifteen times in the last hour.
We leave soon.
Talia headed out hours ago with the team to start prepping, her voice a steady stream of codewords and tactical lingo that mostly flew over my head. Still, Cam’s included me, and that means something. For the first time, I don’t feel like a passenger—I have a role. A reason. Purpose.
Cam scrubs a hand through his hair, then rifles through the bag again—this time pulling out a pair of binoculars. I think.
I sink back against the bed, stroking the plush velvet of the throw beneath me, letting a strange calm settle across my body like silk.
They’re going to burn for this.
Maybe not all of them tonight. Maybe the Broker won’t be there.
But enough. Enough to make them feel it.
My eyes drift to Cam again. His braces stretch taut over the lean muscles under his shirt, each movement flexing, teasing, a physical torment. My stomach twists, tangled in nerves and something hotter.
If this version of him makes me weak…
Seeing him geared up, locked in, battle-ready?
I’ll be liquid on the floor.
Hell, just the thought of him armed and lethal has me clenching my thighs like I’m trying to trap the fire before it devours me.
“How are you feeling? Are you ready?”
His voice breaks through my haze, dragging me out of the fantasy I was halfway drowning in.
I look up, and he’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns the fucking air around him.
That shirt clings to his torso like it’s trying to worship him. His lips pressed in a hard line, but his eyes are molten and feral.
Assessing me like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.
I want to say; Tie me up, shove me against the wall, and fuck me until I forget my own name.
I want his hands bruising my hips, his mouth on my neck, his voice growling filth into my ear as he ruins me for anyone else—forever.
But instead, I bite the inside of my cheek, rein it in, and say simply, “yes.”
He moves, peeling away from the doorframe like he’s about to devour the space between us. When he leans over me, all grit and heat, my body screams for release—every nerve tuned to him, begging for friction.
“But are you?”
I murmur, a taunt wrapped in breath. We both know this man is precision incarnate, but that doesn’t mean I’ll make it easy.
“I’m always ready, trouble.”
His voice is gravel and tension, cracking straight through me.
“Not for this, you’re not.”
I curl my fingers into his belt loops and yank his hips toward mine, rough and direct. Rising to my knees, I hook the back of his neck and crush my mouth to his—wordless, urgent, demanding he feel exactly what he does to me.
My other hand slides over the front of his trousers, fingers stroking the growing hardness beneath.
He twitches against my palm, and I smirk, drunk on control.
It’s probably the longest stretch we’ve had without Kyla barging in, claws at the ready to tear him away.
But this moment is mine.
And I’m taking full advantage.
“Lock the fucking door and get back here, stalker boy—because if I go another damn hour without you inside me, I’m going to wreck the furniture.”
His chuckle rumbles low and dirty. He strides to the door without a second’s hesitation, flicking the lock with the ease of someone who’s made up his mind.
I don’t need interruptions mid-thrust.
Not tonight.
When he returns, he doesn’t speak. He just grabs me by the hips, dragging me down beneath him, face buried in the curve of my neck like he’s hunting every inch of exposed skin.
And I melt—completely.
Already half undone before he’s even undressed me.
“What if I want to do other things to you?”
His voice vibrates against my neck, low and deliberate, and it punches the breath right out of me.
“Like what?”
I whisper, my pulse quickening.
God, I’m up for anything.
Well—anything but fisting. That’s where I draw the line.
His mouth drags slowly along my jaw, lips grazing skin with an ache that makes my thighs twitch. His body pulses against mine, the same raw need humming between us.
“I’ll show you,”
he murmurs.
And then he’s gone. Lifting off me, leaving behind the heat and the pressure like he’s stripped something vital. I watch, breath locked in my chest, as he strides toward the wardrobe.
My heart thunders.
My lips part, dry.
My pussy clenches with thick, aching want.
The thrill of it—knowing he’s about to show me something new, something wicked—has my entire body wound tight. There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows how to tease out the filthiest sounds from me, pull them from my throat like he owns them.
He returns holding two items; one, sleek and black—a glint of something shiny and cold.
The other, nipple clamps—I already know what they are.
“What’s that?”
I ask, nodding toward the unfamiliar bar.
His smile spreads slow and cruel, eyes dark with intent.
“It’s a bit.”
“A… bit?”
I echo, throat dry.
He crooks a finger, and I obey without hesitation—crawling closer until he presses the bar to my lips.
My mouth parts instinctively, drawn in like prey in velvet rope. And I let him push it in, heart pounding, body spiralling.
Maybe I should fear this side of him.
But I don’t.
Not even a little. I trust him.
Completely.
He can do whatever he wants to me—tie me up, clamp me down, drive me past reason—and I’ll still whispe.
“thank you”
through moans he’s handcrafted.
The metal is cold and dominant against my tongue, and when he buckles it behind my head, pulling it snug, drool instantly begins pooling at the corners of my mouth. I’m gagged and dripping, already halfway undone.
“Lie back.”
His voice is firm, low—full of heat and command.
He nods toward the top of the bed, and I don’t hesitate. I scoot up willingly, stripping off my joggers and top with the speed of a woman possessed, revealing lingerie I picked with this very moment in mind.
I knew I’d get my way tonight.
But it doesn’t take him long to remove it all, his fingers caressing and practiced in their movements.
He leans over me, filling my lungs with that devastating scent—spice and adrenaline—and lifts each of my wrists, securing them with smooth black rope I hadn’t even noticed. It’s already threaded through the headboard, waiting for me.
That’s new—it definitely wasn’t there the last time I looked.
Then he moves lower.
Lips, tongue and teeth graze across my skin—my neck, chest, stomach—with slow, deliberate hunger. He pulls moans from around the gag, silken and ruined, and every sound makes him groan against me like he’s counting them.
He grabs one ankle, tying it to a hidden cuff at the bed’s edge. Then the other.
Now I’m completely exposed—arms stretched, legs parted, spread-eagled across the sheets. Vulnerable and caged, completely at his mercy.
And it’s fucking electric.
“Want a safe word, Nell?”
he murmurs, voice brushed with something darker.
Please. Does he not know me by now?
I shake my head emphatically, locking eyes with him, brows furrowed to underline the point.
It catches him for half a second—his brows lift, caught off guard—then a crooked smile curls across his lips.
Game on.
The sting from the clamps rips straight through me in punishing perfection. My nipples throb with each second they’re pinched, and when he gives them a slow, measured twist, my back arches, nerves flaring with equal parts pain and bliss. I whimper through the gag, eyes rolling up as my body trembles beneath him.
It hurts.
It’s intense.
And I fucking need it.
“Stay still, baby,”
he murmurs, palm pressing into my stomach with just enough pressure to pin me. That voice—so soft it barely brushes the surface, yet commanding enough to keep me tethered.
My body obeys, even as it writhes for more. I watch him hungrily—every shift of his mouth against my skin, every deliberate tug of the clamps that makes me gasp around the bit.
Then his fingers trail lower, slow and teasing, until he reaches the slick heat between my thighs. He parts me without hesitation, fingers spreading my lips and exposing everything. I moan, raw and shameless, the sound guttural and wet behind the gag.
He’s staring.
Devouring.
Eyes heavy-lidded, tongue grazing his bottom lip like he’s restraining himself—but not for long.
I want to beg. To tell him to ruin me. Fill me up until I’m nothing but moans and tremors.
But I can’t speak—just a string of muffled cries and drool tracing the edge of the gag.
He reads every noise though. Every goddamn twitch of my muscles.
Then—God help me—he slides two fingers inside, curling them like he’s done this a thousand times before.
He hits every spot like he owns it, pumping slow, twisting, stroking. My body responds instantly, wet and greedy, the sound of it obscene.
When my breath hiccups and my eyes squeeze shut, fighting back the burn deep in my core, he stops—only to peel me open wider, tongue poised.
And then he’s lashing me.
Soft flicks to my clit, then deeper, rougher strokes.
Then—fuck—he pushes his tongue inside, stretching me with heat and pressure.
He’s got a long tongue.
And right now, it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the edge of sanity.
The clamps twist again and I cry out—a hoarse sound muffled behind the gag, eyes squeezed shut, nerves electrified. He’s relentless, tongue dragging filth and fire across me as if he’s trying to worship every inch with punishment and praise.
My thighs twitch against their restraints, muscles seizing as he presses deeper—tongue plunging inside me, curling, writhing, every flick a spark thrown against gasoline.
He moans into me, low and hungry, like he needs this—my reactions, the obscene slickness soaking his mouth, the way I tremble under his grip.
And then his fingers are back—thrusting beside his tongue, curling with precision, the perfect rhythm that has my belly clenching tight, molten heat unfurling inside me like a fuse lit too fast.
I’m panting through the gag now, spit dripping down my chin, thighs wide and useless, nerves sparking with red-hot bliss as his mouth crushes my clit, tongue flicking wildly, lips sucking deep.
My body arches against the ropes, grinding for more despite the restraint—desperate for the burn to crest.
And then I snap.
My orgasm hits like a sledgehammer to glass—fracturing me from the inside out.
My voice breaks in a silent scream behind the gag.
Legs shaking.
Toes curling.
Every clamp, every rope, every thrust amplifying it until I’m melting into the bed in a puddle of twitching flesh and wild heartbeat.
But he doesn’t stop.
Keeps stroking me through it—long, deep motions, tongue and fingers in perfect sync until I’m sobbing with aftershocks and wetness pools beneath me.
Only when I collapse completely—gag soaked, body limp, skin shimmering in sweat—does he lift his head, mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride and possession.
“Well done, baby,”
he praises, stroking a finger down my thigh.
“But I’m nowhere near done. I promised you before that I’d have your ass, and I meant it.”
He can take anything he wants from me right now.
I won’t fight him—I’ll beg for it.
Hell, I’ll serve myself up on a silver platter, legs spread, ass in the air, just to hear him growl my name.
Want to fuck my ass? Please—let me bend over so you can eat it.
But then—Boomerang.
His throaty meow bellows through the door like some feral alarm, and Cam’s gaze flicks toward it.
I shake my head immediately.
The little cockblocker can wait.
Dinner can fucking wait.
Mommy and Daddy are busy.
Another meow—louder this time, insistent.
Cam growls under his breath.
“Your fucking cat.”
He peels himself off me, leaving me tied, dripping, and shaking with the kind of frustration that borders on madness.
The door swings open, flooding the room with light that cuts sharp shadows across my body, accenting just how naked and restrained I am.
And there she is.
Kyla.
Standing dead centre, staring him down like she’s walked into her own twisted fantasy.
Her eyes dip—lingering on the rock-hard length straining against his boxers—then they slide over me, bound and wanting and desperate for her to fuck off.
For fuck’s sake.
Boomerang was clearly acting on orders.
Of course my cat’s been recruited by the dark witch herself.
But a part of me is glad, because this is it. There’s no hiding now, no confusion, no soft denial. Let her stare. Let her witness just what I mean to him.
I’m his.
And after this? She’ll have no choice but to swallow that truth whole.
He nudges Boomerang aside with the edge of his foot, muttering something under his breath to Kyla too quiet for me to catch. Then the door shuts—blessedly.
At least he didn’t invite her in. That would’ve been a mood killer.
His eyes flick back to mine, molten with mischief.
“Now… where was I?”
He grabs the nipple clamps again—no hesitation—and pulls, rough and purposeful. The sharp twist sends a feral moan tearing from my throat, gag-muffled and soaked in need.
In one swift motion, he unbinds my legs and shoves them up to my chest, folding me down so tight I struggle to catch my breath. Then he leans over, unties one arm, and manipulates me like a doll—like his personal plaything—curling me onto my side, hooking my freed arm behind my knees.
“Hold them there,”
he growls, voice thick with possession.
“If that arm twitches, you get spanked. Understand?”
I nod furiously, fingers clenching hard around my own leg. Pins and needles shoot through my grip, but I don’t dare move. I’m too focused—too obedient—to break the tension.
I try to catch a glimpse of what he’s doing from this twisted angle, but all I feel is anticipation slicing through me.
He grabs my ass with one hand—gripping tight, spreading me open—and then his tongue drags from my soaked pussy to the sensitive ring of my ass, rimming with slow, decadent circles.
I gasp, back arching on instinct, but he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t speak.
His finger presses against me—firm, probing—and my body opens, greedy and aching, drawing him deeper with needy clenches and whimpering pleas.
Another, I want to cry. More.
But the gag holds my words hostage, leaving only wet, helpless sounds.
And he listens.
Every squirm. Every twitch. Every muffled scream.
All of it is his.
He disappears briefly, and his absence leaves the air cold against my sweat-slicked skin—like the room itself clings to what he left behind. I feel him before I hear him, the soft click of a cap being twisted open breaking the silence.
Then comes the cool drizzle of lube—silky and shocking as it slides down the cleft of my ass, pooling before he spreads it with firm fingers.
“Fuck me, Nell,”
he grunts, voice low and guttural.
“Your ass is so tight.”
He starts slow, teasing the entrance, pushing inch by inch—stretching me with gentle determination until his hips meet mine and his balls press against the curve of my backside.
The initial burn is sharp, my body instinctively trying to retreat, but I force myself to breathe through it. To relax. To give him everything.
It takes a minute.
Then he starts to move.
Slow, steady thrusts that build rhythm. The sting fades, the ache turns to heat, and soon I’m rolling my hips back against him, in that greedy and shameless sort of way of a woman coming undone.
He reaches for the chain between the clamps on my nipples, wraps it around his fist, and uses it to control my body—each thrust jerking against the tight metal, sending shockwaves through my chest.
With his free hand, he finds my clit and rolls it beneath his fingers, pinching just hard enough to make me gasp—but his rhythm makes the pain melt into pure fucking pleasure.
Then he leans forward, swipes two fingers through my soaked pussy, and brings them to his lips—sucking them slow, tasting me like I’m his favourite goddamn flavour.
I’m drooling around the gag, moaning wild and wordless when he finally reaches behind my head and unbuckles it, yanking the bit from my mouth in one fluid motion.
Before I can catch a breath, his fingers pinch my cheeks, trying to force my mouth open.
“Open,”
he commands, and the second I comply, he spits.
It’s hot. Slick.
Mine and his, mixed.
“Taste yourself,”
he growls, eyes blazing as his thumb presses under my chin and holds me there.
And I swallow.
Every drop.
Because fuck yes—I belong to this.
The sounds spill out of me now—filthy, rhythmic, and raw—as he drives into me again and again, each thrust jerking my body forward and back with rough precision. His pace quickens, hips slamming against mine, sweat mixing between us, heat suffusing every touchpoint.
“Cam—fuck, fuck,”
I cry out, biting down hard on my lip to cage the scream building in my throat.
He smacks my ass, the sting sharp and electric, then grabs my thigh and stretches me open wider. His lips press kisses down the curve of my calf, unhurried and possessive, even as he keeps grinding deep inside me.
“Play with yourself, Nell,”
he growls, that voice drenched in command and heat.
“Show me exactly how you like it.”
Yes fucking sir.
I slide my hand to my clit, swollen and aching, and the moment my fingers brush it I know I’m already teetering on the edge.
I’m strung so tight from his rhythm, his pressure, the clamps pulling mercilessly at my nipples—it’s not a question of if, only when.
“Attagirl,”
he murmurs, watching the way I circle, flick, and stroke until the tension snaps—my body shattering as pleasure detonates through me. I moan loud and wrecked as I clench around him, thighs trembling, fingers soaked in my orgasmic release.
He snarls above me, driving harder now, using every inch of me to chase his own climax. His cock plunges deep, buried in my ass, thick and relentless.
“I want you to cum in my ass,”
I pant, still stroking myself, slower now—lazy, spent, twitching.
He laughs darkly against my shoulder.
“You think you had a choice?”
Then he grunts, muscles locked, his body shaking as he pumps deep—fingers twisting the chain between my clamps, drawing another moan straight from my soul. His release floods into me, hot and final, and I collapse beneath him, skin flushed, mind scattered, bones humming.