31. Phoenix #2
When he breaks away, I’m left gasping for air, trying to understand what’s happening.
“You fucked up bad, Kitten. This isn’t how I wanted to play with you the first time. I wanted to warm you up, get you used to it. Get you addicted to the pain.” His hands move from my throat to my shoulders. His voice is low, regretful, cruel. It bleeds across my skin like ice and fire all at once.
“But now I have to break you before you’re ready. If you need to use your safe word, use it. But the consequences stand. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” My heart pounds in my ears, and my throat is dry—but my determination is steel. If this is the price of staying, of proving myself, I will pay it .
“Good. Your punishment, Kitten, from me is five lashes. Do not make a single sound. If you make a sound, I’ll start over. Understood?”
This time, I nod.
“Good. Then hopefully you only have to learn this lesson once. Next time we play like this, I’ll show you what it’s like to mix pleasure with the pain. How breaking your mind can lead you to a new depth of ecstasy.”
His voice dips at that last word—ecstasy—like a promise and a threat at the same time. My body clenches with anticipation.
He places another swift kiss on my lips, then takes my hands and places them at the edge of the table, so my fingers can curl around it.
“You might want to hold on.”
He takes a few steps back, and I watch as he slowly undoes the metal buckle of his leather belt. The sound of the leather sliding through loops sends a tremor down my spine. Not fear. Something darker. Something hungrier.
“No,” Con says, stepping in and putting his hand on Atticus’s chest .
Atticus looks at his hand, then raises a brow, cool and unimpressed.
“I don’t want her silent,” Con says.
“Well, this isn’t your punishment. And I don’t feel like hearing her scream.”
“No,” Con repeats. “I want to hear her count.”
Atticus glares at him for a long second, grinding his jaw. He doesn’t like interference. Doesn’t like losing control.
But eventually, he gives a single nod.
“Okay, kitten, change of plans. You’re going to get five lashes, but after each and every strike, I want you to count and thank me for your punishment.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, holding on tight to the edge of the table, trying to make my muscles relax, but they’re so tense with nerves—a potent combination of fear and anticipation.
Atticus folds his belt in half, snapping it a few times to test the leather. Each loud crack makes my entire body jump.
“Don’t forget to keep that plug in place,” Maverick reminds me, as if I could forget .
The tension in the room coils tighter around me. Their eyes are on me like wolves watching a deer—waiting to see if I break, waiting to see if I bleed.
I think the worst part about all of this is knowing that all of them are watching. Waiting for me to fail. To prove I’m just another disappointment. Another girl who couldn’t be enough for them. Another body they can forget.
The leather is soft and warm as Atticus drags it down my spine. I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into the polished wood, bracing myself for the first strike.
His touch lingers just long enough to make me want the sting. That’s the fucked-up part. I want it now. I need it to settle the chaos inside me.
I hear the whoosh of the belt as he swings it through the air—and then the crack, sharp and sudden, against my ass. The pain registers an instant later, a sting that floods heat through my body and brings tears to my eyes.
“Count,” Atticus demands.
“One. Thank you, sir. ”
The second strike lands lower, across the tender place where my thighs meet my ass. My breath catches.
“Two. Thank you, sir,” I gasp.
Tears are overflowing onto my cheeks now, but I ignore them. I don’t wipe them away. I don’t let them stop me. This is part of the price.
The next strike comes at an angle, slashing diagonally across my already-burning skin. The sharpness makes me flinch—but then the warmth spreads again, melting through the pain.
“Three. Thank you, sir.” I grip the edge of the table tighter, trying to force the rest of me to relax.
“You should just use your safe word,” Con taunts.
I say nothing. Atticus only gave me permission to count and thank him. That’s it. I’m not going to risk restarting these lashes because Con wants to be a dick. He wants to see me fail. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The fourth lash lands hard—across the fullest part of my ass again—and this time a sound escapes me. A tiny moan. Unintentional. Raw .
“Four. Thank you, sir.”
Storm shoves Con aside, stepping in close. He leans down until I can feel his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.
“It’s my turn next, angel,” he murmurs. His voice is low and dangerous, like thunder before a storm. “How am I going to punish you?”
His words send a different kind of tremor through me. My body still stings from the belt, but it’s his voice that makes my blood run hotter.
Atticus still has one strike left, and the waiting makes it worse. The anticipation wraps around me like barbed wire.
“Answer me, angel,” Storm whispers. “You’re allowed.”
“I don’t know,” I say, voice shaking. “What do you think I deserve?”
“Your actions pushed me into a black hole of violence. You put me at risk. I could’ve killed someone. I could be in prison right now—because of you. ”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, his words dragging more tears from me. Not because I’m afraid—but because I know he’s right.
“I don’t know if sorry is good enough for this one, angel. You need to be punished. You need to atone for your sins.” His breath brushes my cheek, intimate and laced with something savage. “But I see the same broken pieces in you that live in me.”
I freeze. Those words hit harder than the belt ever could.
“If you were any other girl,” he continues, “I could chain you to my bed, run my blade along your most delicate skin, carve lines into your flesh—and you’d be terrified. That would be a punishment.”
He pauses.
“But I don’t think that’s punishment for you, is it?”
“I—” I choke on the word. I don’t know how to answer that question.
“See, I think if I cut your pretty skin,” Storm murmurs, “all I’d do is release the rot. All the pain other people shoved inside you—everything festering inside that beautiful body—it would spill out like poison. And it’d be a relief. ”
His voice isn’t cruel. It’s reverent. And just like every other time Storm levels that brilliant blue stare at me, I feel seen.
More tears fall, not from fear. Not from pain. But from something rawer. Something that feels like hope and devastation all tangled together.
“Angel,” Storm says softly, “there’s so much we could do—so much we already are. We could stitch each other back together with teeth and blood, or peel the skin off every wound just to watch them fester. But how do I punish you… when I’m already addicted to the way you bleed?”
Again, I say nothing. My voice has abandoned me—but my heart is screaming.
He sees me. Every shattered, vicious, beautiful piece of me. And for one suspended second, I’m not alone in my ruin.
The belt cuts through the air again. But this time—I want it.
I arch into the blow, body rising to meet the strike like a lover instead of a victim.
It lands low, across the very bottom of my ass. The heat of the leather licks against my pussy at the same time—and Storm was right.
The sharp pain is a release. A cleansing by fire.
“Five. Thank you, sir.” My voice cracks. I don’t sob—but I’m close.
“Flip her,” Atticus commands.
Suddenly, I’m airborne again—then slammed onto my back. The table’s cold surface sears my skin, and it actually feels good against the burning welts on my backside.
“You did good with the first part of your punishment, kitten,” Atticus says. “I’m proud of you.”
He leans in close, his voice silk over steel.
“Let’s see if you can survive part two.”
I want to ask what part two is. But I’ve learned by now—curiosity is a luxury I can’t afford.
I keep my mouth shut.
Atticus grabs my ankles and swings me around so I’m lying across the table again. My knees bend over the edge, and my head hangs slightly off the other side, barely supported .
“This time,” Atticus says, his tone colder now, more clinical, “I don’t want to hear a single sound from you. Unless you’re answering a question from Storm— not. One. Sound. Remember: you’re not allowed to come. If you come, you lose.”
I nod, jaw locked. I know better than to speak.
Storm takes a seat in one of the armchairs and slides close, so my head rests just over his lap. His hand comes to my throat, wrapping around it with expert precision, squeezing just enough to make my pulse jump. I can still breathe, but not deeply. Not freely.
The restriction is like a leash made of fire, tethering me to him, forcing every beat of my heart to fall into step with his will.
“I want you naked in my room,” Storm whispers in my ear, his voice pure sin, “kneeling at my feet as you clean each and every one of the blades I’m going to use on you.”
The words shouldn't turn me on. But they do. They burn their way into me, stitching want through every nerve ending .
Atticus’s mouth presses hot and wet against the inside of my knee. The contrast is maddening—Storm whispering sharp promises into my ear while Atticus moves slowly, deliberately up the delicate terrain of my inner thigh.
“Once I watch you polish every blade,” Storm continues, “I’ll blindfold you. Tie you to my bed. Leave you open and exposed. I’ll run each blade across your skin, tip to flesh, until you can name every one by touch.”
I’m vibrating. From the belt, from the breathlessness, from the hunger in their voices. Every part of me is braced. Bare.
Atticus’s mouth traces closer to the center of me, lips leaving a wet trail of reverence—or punishment. Just when I think he’s going to stop and start over on the other leg, I feel the slow drag of his tongue along the seam of my sex.
“Are you going to win this, Angel?” Storm asks, tightening his grip on my throat just enough to make me dizzy.
“Yes,” I try to say, but no sound comes out. I mouth it anyway .
It must be enough.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I want you in my bed. I want to take you apart, piece by piece. I want to strip you of every lie anyone’s ever told you about yourself. I want to make you burn, Phoenix. Peel away the bullshit and find the light underneath. Will you break for me? Will you bleed for me?”
His voice terrifies me. Arouses me. Claims something inside me I didn’t even know was missing.
Atticus’s tongue is relentless, tracing every nerve like it was carved for him to find. Then his fingers slide inside—two, pressing deep. The stretch feels impossibly tight with the plug still buried in my ass, every inch of me filled and trembling.
“I can feel your pulse racing,” Storm growls, his lips brushing my ear as he bites down gently on the lobe.
The pressure in my core is unbearable. My thighs shake. A sheen of sweat breaks across my skin.
“She’s not going to last much longer,” Maverick warns, somewhere off to my right .
“She’ll last as long as I want her to,” Atticus replies, curling his fingers inside me. I bite back a sob.
“She better,” Con says, stepping into view. His hand reaches down, gripping my breast—thumb and forefinger clamping over my nipple, sending a sharp current through me.
Storm loosens his grip on my throat just enough for me to draw a deeper breath. My lungs burn. My head spins. I am fraying.
Atticus latches onto my clit, sucking hard, while his fingers find my g-spot again and again, milking the pressure building inside me.
My safe word hovers on the edge of my lips. I want to say it. I want to scream it.
But I don’t.
They need me.
But more than that… I need them.
If I let go, I lose them. It’s not about mobsters. Or my father. It never was. This is about the men in this room—the ones who broke me open and found something they wanted inside .
I want Storm to take me apart and stitch me back together. I want us to heal each other in the wreckage.
I want Atticus to see obedience as devotion—to know he’s worth submitting to. That someone sees the man under the brain.
I want Maverick’s laughter and his chaos. I want his rough edges and his brawn. I want his hands on me like I’m a secret joke only he gets to tell.
And I want Con to claim me. Not just in the dark—but when he’s breaking. I want to be his anchor.
Everything I’ve survived was just training for this. For them. For becoming the kind of woman who can take all of them—and still stand.
“Fuck,” Con breathes. “Let her come. If she can take all of us without breaking—she’s in.”
“Fucking finally, ” Maverick mutters, though his tone is rough with reverence.
I don’t understand what they mean. I don’t have time to.
“Come,” Storm commands. “Come on Atticus’s tongue. Give it to him—he’s earned it. ”
And I do.
My back arches off the table, my mouth opens in a silent scream.
Con’s hands are still on my breasts. Storm is still gripping my throat.
Maverick grabs my hips and holds me down as the orgasm rips through me—ruthless, overwhelming, perfect.
Atticus doesn’t let up, tongue and fingers driving me into a second wave as my body trembles, ruined and reverent beneath them.
“Fuck,” Storm whispers, his mouth pressed to my ear. “That was beautiful, angel.”
Then he asks: “Are you ready for the hard part of your punishment?”