Twenty-Eight
Ara
“I’m sorry, what ?”
I wince at Harley’s tone. Her jacket—the whole reason she came here—lies forgotten as she stares at me, eyes wide in utter shock. I haven’t heard her voice this loud before, but I guess we’ve given her a damn good reason to lose her composure.
Beside me, Ivy hides her laughter behind her coffee cup. I roll my eyes. Great. Now it’s funny. It wasn’t funny when she was squeaking and trying to blend into the shipping container walls. I guess she, like me, developed the habit of finding humour in absurdly dangerous situations.
Harley starts counting on her fingers.
“Let me see if I got this straight. First, you go to Roarfort to explore some abandoned mansion and—oh, surprise—you find corpses .”
I wince, and Ivy’s cheeks flush as she nods.
“Then you shoot the ‘boss’ and, instead of, I don’t know, running, you start crying.” Harley’s eyebrow arches higher.
This time, I blush. Guilty as charged. I am still perplexed about my behaviour that night. I didn’t know why I cried. I clearly told the man to stop, but the arrogant prick wouldn’t listen!
“Somehow, you still make it out alive, he then starts attending your lectures and you don’t report him. Later you get mixed up in his fight club , and then— he saves you .” She points a finger at me as I nod meekly.
“Then, you start getting all friendly with his men, letting them into your life and even going to their casinos?”
I look away, hoping to avoid her accusatory glare. I haven’t told them about the time on the pier. It felt…too private. I know nothing happened, but for some reason, I felt that piece of time belonged only to me and Zagan. Bunch of asinine nonsense, of course, but I don’t plan on telling them.
“And after all that, you manage to land yourself in trouble again . Going into places you’re not supposed to be, and this time, the big bad wolf sheds his goat skin and demands a kiss from Cinderella here.”
“Uh… it’s sheepskin,” I mumble.
Her glare sharpens, and I promptly shut up.
“And then you kiss the devil himself, invite his men into your house, because you recorded some illegal and dangerous shit. And now you’re planning to ask the mafioso to help you serve justice?”
Ivy and I both nod, and Harley just stares at us, completely dumbfounded. Yeah, I guess we did lose our minds somewhere along the way.
She scoffs, shaking her head.
“It’s like you just kept digging yourselves a deeper hole every. Single. Time. ”
I called Eero as soon as we were on our way home, hoping to deal with the whole video mess. I didn’t expect them to reach my place as fast as we did. I knew Harley wouldn’t be thrilled meeting new people—especially intimidating men who made no effort to hide their guns or what they did.
So she stayed with Cas in his room before I opened the door for Iblis and Eero. She deserves to know why I’ve had these people under the same roof along with her. And I’m sure she must’ve heard the snippets of the conversation. We weren’t being too quiet.
“You kissed Za… him.” Harley looks like she’s still trying to wrap her head around it.
“For god’s sake, say his name. He isn’t Voldemort.” I shake my head at the silly superstition.
“Easy for you to say, Devil Kisser.” Ivy snorts, barely containing her laughter.
I glare, but even Harley cracks a smile.
“I hate you both.”
“So dramatic.” Ivy shakes her head, grinning.
I lean back in my chair, trying to keep my mind from last night’s ridiculously vivid dream. Ever since Zagan gave me that completely irrational and barely qualified to be a kiss on the corner of my lips, he’s been creeping into my dreams—uninvited. But never like that , not after I’d taken sleeping pills. Those usually keep even the nightmares at bay. But no, he had to worm his way into some embarrassingly erotic dream. So erotic and real that it left me panting come morning, a deep ache somewhere inside me, which I wanted to fill with him.
“When you said the guy you liked was dang—”
“ Liked? ” Ivy practically screeches, turning a few heads around us.
I give an apologetic smile to the students milling around and then shoot her a glare. Ivy stares back, indignant.
“You like Mr. Devlin?”
I can’t exactly argue with her shock. I don’t really understand it myself. And ‘like’ is such a… loaded word. I don’t like Zagan Devlin. I’m… attracted to him.
“I said I was starting to. Was. Whatever it was is gone now, after his behaviour last night.”
Sure. If you ignore the kiss and everything else he did to you in your dream.
God, my brain needs to get out of the gutter where he’s concerned. This is getting exhausting.
Harley and Ivy exchange looks, clearly unimpressed. Ivy arches a brow.
“You like Iblis,” I accuse, hoping to shift the spotlight off myself.
She gasps, like I’d just revealed her darkest secret.
Good.
Desperate times and all that.
Harley leans her elbows on the table, dropping her head into her hands.
“You’re both fucked .”
“He doesn’t know! And besides, he has no interest in me other than scaring the living shit out of me. I didn’t kiss him or take his jacket twice and sneakily take a whiff of them from where I stored them in my closet. And also, I didn’t play romance with the bossman or act all fine with his stalkerish tendencies!” Ivy sputters.
“Oh please,” I scoff. “You’re aware of the way Iblis looks at you whenever you’re around. The only reason he’s risking his neck with his boss is because you cried.”
I’m not completely sure about this accusation. When it comes to that diabolical man, I cannot expect anything humane. But if this proves my point and shuts Ivy up, I’m not above using it.
Ivy blushes, torn between mortification and some level of smug satisfaction. But of course, she can’t let it go without one final jab.
“Well, I’m not the one who got all hot and bothered, had a wet dream and ruined my sheets.”
I bury my face in my hands, wondering what I ever did to deserve friends like these.
Harley groans, massaging her temples. “So thoroughly and irrevocably fucked.”
* * *
“We are now in deep shit, right?”
I nod as Ivy and I walk towards our respective classrooms. I’m always happy to be back at work, but with how things have been taking a nose dive to the south, a weight has settled in my gut. I feel like we are always one mishap away from hell breaking loose.
“Why can’t we like someone normal?” Ivy lets out a huge sigh, shaking her head.
I huff out a laugh, the absurdity of the situation no longer making sense to me. Why is it that there is a problem one after the other? Why does it feel like ever since we stepped foot into that abandoned warehouse, our lives have taken a swivel towards problems?
“What did Iyra say?”
I spoke to my sister this morning. I didn’t want to worry her, but I’d promised not to hide things from her either. Up until yesterday, I could have convinced myself it was just a one-sided attraction, a fleeting infatuation. Maybe I was just another woman who dreamed of that "beauty and the beast" kind of love—something many desire, but few truly understand the consequences of. The beast doesn’t change just because you love him. Your love doesn’t humanise him. If anything, it transforms you into someone unrecognisable.
But after yesterday, everything shifted, and I couldn’t hide it from her any longer.
“Let’s just say she had some choice of words that made me want to dig a hole and bury myself in it.”
She was not polite in the way she cursed at me. I know her anger comes from a place of worry, but also she understands that there is nothing I can do to cut myself from the situations I’m in. With the mess we have entangled ourselves from the recording and being the witnesses of confidential crimes, we cannot afford to cut our ties with the mob. Not with what we plan on doing with the evidence.
We are already too deep in this. Involving Iblis was the last thread that pushed us into the pit of trouble. But he directed us towards his boss for help.
I try not to think of Zagan and his absurd demand ever since.
Be mine.
He had no right!
No darning right to sound as magnetic and majestic while making ludicrous demands like that. And I’ve already made peace with the fact that something inside my head is broken to be still attracted to the man despite that. Something so broken that I wanted my dream last night to come true. Wanting him to ravage me in sleep, exploiting my inebriated state as he wished. Who the heck even wants that?
He is a stalker, a tyrant, a man who kills as a profession. And that must be the most benign thing he does in this area of business. And my body still craves him.
Ivy chuckles at my words and shakes her head. There are purple circles underneath her eyes, and despite the makeup, I can see her pale skin. Iblis had said something to her— while I was boxing the manicotti for Eero. Something that turned her paler than when we were being chased. The man smiled at her as if he didn’t scare the living daylights out of her.
“Are you okay?”
She nods. “As okay as one could be right now.”
Before I can ask her anything else, I see her frowning. I follow the direction of her gaze, and it lands on a small group of students standing outside my classroom. They are murmuring amongst themselves, not getting inside the room.
“What’s wrong, people?”
All of them look at me, different reactions panning on their faces. But one stands out the most. Fear.
That makes me frown as I peek into the classroom. And try as I might, I cannot stop the shock and instant carnal desire when I see Zagan sitting in one of the first chairs in nonchalant elegance.
I haven’t seen him around the university ever since my ankle and hip healed. Even if a certain part of me was bummed by it, I was mostly thankful that I wouldn’t have to be under his scrutiny. But looking at him here, his right ankle crossed over his other knee, a streak of his dark hair falling on his forehead while his dark suit hugs his muscular frame like sin, I forgot what it is to breathe. Some of the students who were gutsy enough to walk in and seat themselves couldn’t help but stare at him.
It is human nature to have a morbid interest in anything that scares us. And they are looking at the beast of a man whose scars shine under the sunlight streaming from the window, his majesticness that cannot be contained in the room. Someone who screams danger from a mile ahead.
As if feeling my stare on him, Zagan turns, giving me his transfixing eyes that pin me to the spot. I hear students around me gasp. I see them fidgeting and hiding, but I also see the female students being drawn to him. It is very normal for the kids to be drawn towards a bad boy. Little do they know that the man is no bad boy but a devil who wears his skin with pride.
And I do not like the pang of something sharp and green sludging through me when I notice that he is receiving more attention from the girls. I can almost see the sexual desires painted on their faces.
“Get inside,”
They do, albeit reluctantly and looking at me in question. I’m not going to let them see that I have no clue what this man is doing in my classroom.
No. He has no power here. This is my classroom, and as long as he sits in one of those chairs, for all intents and purposes, he is a student. My student.
“Good luck getting through the day,” Ivy chuckles in my ear before she saunters off.
If I could’ve, I would’ve glared at her. But every speck of energy inside me is required to take my eyes off those magnetic ones that want to pull me in.
“Good morning, everyone,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my body hums with awareness of him.
I set my materials down on the desk and force myself to look away from him. I can’t get distracted. I take my job seriously, no matter if I have to do it even in the presence of an imposing oaf.
I notice the students giving Zagan a wide berth as they take their seats. I shake my head slightly, understanding their fear but also angered that they would judge him without any reason. If he wanted to do some harm, I don’t think he would be sitting this calm.
Humans and their imminent need to judge, categorise and gossip about people is as exhausting as it is irritating.
“Today, we’ll be diving into CRISPR-Cas9 gene editing and its applications in human genetics,” I continue, my tone commanding as I take my place at the front of the room. “CRISPR is a game-changer. It allows us to target and modify specific genes within living organisms with unparalleled precision.”
I know my students. I know that once I dive into the lesson that will help in their research, I will have their rapt attention. And I need them to look at me and not at Zagan.
Despite the limited time we have spent in each other’s company, I understood that he doesn’t like attention. No one would when they receive it for the wrong reasons. I don’t want these kids looking at his scars and peeking at his tattoos, categorising him as a thug and condemning him the way he doesn’t deserve.
Zagan might be a tyrant and occasional jerk, but he doesn’t deserve more scrutiny than he already gets from people wherever he goes.
I try to focus on the lesson, but every time I move, I can feel his eyes tracking me. My skin tingles and I’m acutely aware of the heat pooling in my stomach, a warmth I don’t want to acknowledge. Not here. Not in front of my students.
I point at the complex structure of the CRISPR-Cas9 system on the smartboard, the intricate diagrams swirling with labelled components that would overwhelm anyone unprepared for the depth of the topic. But not my students.
“At its core, CRISPR-Cas9 has two main components,” I say, trying to ignore the way his gaze feels like it’s peeling away the layers of my composure. “The Cas9 protein, which acts as a highly specialised molecular scissor, cutting the double-stranded DNA at a precise target site. But here’s the catch,” I pause, letting the room settle into attentive silence, “it doesn’t act alone.”
I take a steadying breath and continue.
I stride toward the board, circling a specific region in the diagram with a red laser pointer. “The guide RNA,” I explain, “is what makes this system revolutionary. It’s programmed with a sequence complementary to the target DNA. When the Cas9 and guide RNA form a complex, they operate with precision on an unparalleled scale—surgical, deliberate.”
I’m aware of the students’ eyes on me, but I can’t help but feel Zagan’s attention like a heavy weight on my back. My mind flickers back to last night, to the dream I had about him—about us. Why do I remember this one in such vivid detail? Like it has really happened? The feel of those bands of steel gripping me in my most sensitive areas. His tongue, diving into me, exploring regions no one ever did. His hands around my neck as he growled mine.
I shake my head, fighting to focus. I can’t think about that. Not now. Not here.
I glance at the rows of faces, gauging their comprehension. They’re keeping up, as they should. Still, I decide to push them further.
“But CRISPR-Cas9 is far from infallible,” I continue, my tone shifting to challenge them. “What happens if the RNA guide sequence partially matches non-target DNA?”
I pause for a moment to gauge the room, but my eyes inevitably flicker back to Zagan. His gaze hasn’t wavered, and it feels like he’s studying me, dissecting me as carefully as I’m explaining gene editing to the class. The intensity of his stare sends a tremor through me, but I force myself to keep talking.
“Off-target effects. Misdirected cuts that could result in unintended genetic consequences. Imagine using CRISPR to cure sickle cell anaemia, only to inadvertently trigger mutations that lead to cancer. This is why precision isn’t just important—it’s everything.”
I feel a bead of sweat forming at my temple, and I briefly wonder if anyone else can feel the suffocating tension that seems to hang between Zagan and me. I try my best not to squirm. Not to give any attention towards the pool of wetness forming between my legs. I hate how turned on I am just by his attention. It is pathetic and….and…wrong!
But I push those thoughts aside. Focus, I tell myself. You’re here to teach.
“To counter this, researchers are engineering high-fidelity variants of the Cas9 protein. Variants like eSpCas9 and SpCas9-HF1, for instance, reduce non-specific DNA binding without sacrificing efficiency. And yet,” I turn toward them, gesturing at the board, “even these modifications are not immune to error. The challenge lies in designing guide RNAs that can minimise unintended activity in vivo. This is where the real work begins.”
I take a moment to pause, letting the information settle in and for them to type the information into their laptops. The room is filled with soft noises of clicking keyboards, but I’m all too aware of Zagan’s presence. His eyes are locked on me, unwavering, and the memory of my dream resurfaces. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape him.
Damn it!
“But let’s move beyond the basics,” I say briskly, regaining control of my thoughts. “Suppose you’re designing a CRISPR system for a patient with Huntington’s disease. The gene you’re targeting, HTT, has a high level of polymorphism in the human population. What strategies would you employ to ensure both specificity and efficacy across diverse genetic backgrounds?”
Silence falls. A few brows furrow and some students scribble furiously in their notebooks.
“I’ll give you a hint,” I say, arching a brow. “It’s not just about the guide RNA. You need to account for chromatin accessibility, off-target prediction algorithms, and even potential immune responses. This is gene editing in the real world—not the sanitised version in textbooks.”
I almost forgot how frustrating it is to teach under his scrutinising gaze.
“And here’s your assignment,” I add, writing in bold letters on the board. “Design a CRISPR system targeting a disease-causing gene of your choice. Your proposal must include strategies for reducing off-target effects, improving delivery efficiency, and addressing ethical considerations. Due next week.”
Why is he doing this? Does he enjoy watching me suffer?
“Now, as we move forward with our CRISPR-Cas9 lab project,” I say, trying to sound composed, “I want you all to think critically about both the scientific and ethical implications of gene editing and write an essay. This technology holds immense potential, but it also carries significant responsibility.”
Of course, he enjoys my discomfort. Why else would he be here, other than find his dose of entertainment?
I quickly turn away from the class, focusing on the board again. “This technology could change the world,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. “And one of you might be the person who does it. Treat it with the respect it demands.”
I try to finish strong, but every part of me is screaming to look at him, to acknowledge the pull between us, to let myself slip into the dangerous territory of what’s brewing beneath the surface.
I can feel the weight of the class still on me, but all I can think about is how badly I want to escape—escape from this lecture, escape from Zagan’s gaze, escape from the suffocating desire rising in my chest.
But I can’t. I can’t let it show. I can’t let him win. Not here. Not now.
Students are in a hurry to rush outside, Ray lingering near the table with a questioning look on her face. She looks at Zagan beyond her shoulder, a short shudder passing through her before she turns back to me.
“Okay, I need to ask. Is he your new student?”
I zip my bag, looking at the titan, who stands to his magnificent height when I press him with a hard look.
“That’s what I intend to find out,”
Ray looks at me in confusion, but I give her a soft smile.
“Go back to the lab. Your maps need to be reviewed.”
Her eyes go wide at my observation, and she hurries out of the room to check on the lie I fed her. I turn my attention back to Zagan, being mindful of keeping the distance between us. And also, standing on the raised platform gives me an added advantage in height. Don’t want to feel like a lilliput while I try to grill this man about his presence here.
I cross my hands across my chest and notice the way his eyes look down at them before he meets my eyes.
“Even if you happen to be a student here—which I know that you are not—you are required to take a test to be qualified to attend my classes, Mr Devlin. You cannot just saunter in.” I repeat the same thing I’ve done before.
He raises a singular brow as if he finds my words ridiculous.
“I can. And I did.”
“Well, you cannot. You need my permission to be here, and you do not have that!”
He takes a threatening step forward, and it is by sheer willpower that I stand my ground as he stops right in front of the podium.
“And what if I will? Hmm? Is there anything you can do about that, little siren?”
I’m generally a calm person. I’m not angered easily, and I pride myself on being able to remain level-headed even in tough situations. But with the way Zagan taunts in his annoying and monotonously sexy voice, I can feel my temper rising. I am not giving him the power with my reactions! I refuse to.
I shake my head at him, knowing that there isn’t anything I can do to stop him. I don’t even think the dean could do anything about it.
“You’re right, Mr Devlin,” I say evenly, as I turn to collect my bag and things, “there is nothing I can do. So, bye.”
When I turn back, I jump back in surprise to find him standing right in front of me. His rich scent of Oud and leather wafts in my space, making the air thicken whenever he comes this close. His head motions behind him, pointing at a man who stands ramrod straight with his hands held behind him.
“He is your guard,”
I take a sharp breath, trying to hold my anger in check, but every nerve is lit up, each sense tuned to Zagan’s presence. He’s too close, his gaze as dark and steady as ever, and the quiet intensity in his eyes only makes my frustration burn hotter.
The sheer audacity for him to think he has any say about my life is laughable if not for the seriousness on his face.
“No.” I try his annoying shortened sentences.
Seems like the mob boss cannot take what he serves. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but otherwise, his face remains impassive. His gaze stays on me, unwavering. He steps closer, his voice low and unhurried.
"You think I care what you need?”
Heat floods through me, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. I keep my eyes locked on his, narrowing them slightly, refusing to back down.
"This isn’t about what you care. I’m not your responsibility.” I fume.
"No," he says, his tone cold and clipped. "You’re my possession.”
Possession? Did he actually say that I’m his possession?
My pulse races, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or the surge of something else that’s making my skin tingle. I step back, lifting my chin. Damn his towering frame! It would help my case a lot better if he wasn’t this frigging tall!
"This isn’t the dark ages. I’m not something you just… keep. People aren’t possessions. You cannot own me.”
His eyes flare slightly as if he loves that idea of owning me. And something is wrong with me because, at this moment, flashes of his hand circling my neck fill my head, and I struggle to stand straight at that unbidden image.
“ I can.”
Is it wrong if I want to bash his skull and kiss him at the same time? I think some psychologists would certify me crazy.
“This is ridiculous.” I shake my head, “Why are we even talking about something as absurd as this? When did we become a thing where you get to impose tyrannical commands over my life? Who do you think you-“
My breath halts when he takes an imposing step to cage me between him and the table behind me. His hand slowly comes to loosely wrap around my neck, his thumb pressing on the pulse that beats at a maddening pace.
"Every chance I gave you to run, little siren... you ignored it. Instead of escaping, you came right to me. You made your choice, and I'm its consequence." He murmurs, voice dark, gripping my chin, tilting my face to meet his gaze.
His grip tightens, possessive, the heat of his breath grazing my skin as his lips hover close.
"I don’t spare lives, Ara. Mercy isn’t in me. But when I saved yours, I claimed it. Every breath you take, every beat of your heart, is because I decided it would continue. I’m a killer, and if I keep someone alive, it’s by my hand alone. The second you shot me, and I chose to let you live, you became mine. Bound to me until I decide otherwise.”
It takes a unique, twisted mastery of control to speak like this. He may be a man of few words, but when he does speak, each syllable is weaponised, crafted to seize control and keep his opponent off balance.
Anger flares white-hot, mingling with the maddening pull I feel under his stare. I clench my fists, angry that I don’t have a quick retort for his absurdity. I open my mouth to argue, but he beats me to it.
“I don’t force women, Ara. That’s not who I am. But you, you will be mine. By your choice.”
His eyes shine with a smirk shortly, clearly seeing every unspoken thought, every reaction I’m fighting to hide. Satisfied with the stupefaction and anger on my face, he finally lets me go, leaving behind the imprint of his gigantic paw around my neck.
Before I can say something to knock that barely there smirk, I see Dr Harrison. I’m quick to plaster the practised smile, straighten my already neat dress and step in front of the infuriating man I decide to ignore.
“Dr Harrison, how are you?”
The man stops in the hallway, looking into the classroom at my voice. His usually frowny face, which has become his characteristic all over the university, softens, and he gives me a rare smile he only reserves for his close peers. I relax whenever I see that smile as it tells me that my hard work to befriend him hasn’t gone to waste.
“Good day, Ara. Will I be seeing you at my house for the weekend party?”
I nod, opening my mouth to say that I’d love nothing more. Harrison’s eyes dart behind me. I can feel Zagan standing there, so close that his body heat dances across my back. Something he must have seen there scares Harrison back into a scowl that I spent years softening. There is also fear as he clears his throat and takes a step back.
“Or perhaps, some other time. Goodbye, Dr Sinclair.”
A not-so-subtle way of invitation being revoked. Dr Sinclair and not Ara.
Harrison leaves, and I turn to glare at the man responsible. It doesn’t take much effort to put every ounce of anger into it. With the way he forced my hand yesterday, the irrationality of his words from moments ago, the utter embarrassment I felt and still feel for what I dreamt, wanted—and still do—last night and the way he behaves as if he owns the ground he stands on it, makes it is easy to glare daggers at the man. I pride myself on being patient, but this man doesn’t deserve my nicety anymore.
“It took me two years to befriend him! You ruined it!”
I expect him to retort that he did nothing. Technically, he did do nothing, but I know the ferocity of his glare and what it can do to people. No one stands to witness their doom when the apex predator looks at them as if he wants to shred them apart.
“Why do you need a spineless coward as your friend?”
“Because he allocates funds to research! Which happens to include mine!”
I need a Confocal laser scanning microscope and also some NGSs. Kevin broke the one I had. I could only have one of the two before; now, I don’t think I could have either. Angry tears come to the surface as I sidestep him, wanting to be anywhere but here. I also try my darndest not to call him any names. Name-calling didn’t do anyone any favour.
“I'll give you the money”
“I don’t want your money,” I pull my bag onto my shoulder and grab my things.
“I’m allowed to make donations and request its allocation, little siren.”
That shuts me up. One, I didn’t know he knew that. Two, and by request, I know he means to make a demand or scare the dean into giving me the money. Great, then I’ll be looked at as the professor with mob connections who slept her way for her research. Just frigging dandy!
“I say this with utter disregard,” I scowl at him, “Why don’t you take your money and shove it up your…your…butthole!”
I expect retaliation, more show of power. That’s what men with large egos did. Bulldoze or trample others with power or strength. Zagan has both. But he surprises me by giving me a real smile. The smile that throws me off guard and stills me on the spot. It is small, but the tug of his lips and the lightness in his eyes make him look a decade younger, taking away the hard edges despite the scars. A smile that is embedded into my brain, a smile that makes it difficult for me to breathe.
“Your sass only makes me hard, little siren.”
I try to be repulsed by his words. I try a lot, but I cannot. Not when he puts an image of his hardness, and my eyes involuntarily snap down to his groin. I’m quick to turn away, my cheeks heating when I find an impressive bulge between his legs, straining against the material of his pants.
“That’s disgusting,” my voice strains to keep the breathlessness out of it.
“You want me, Ara.”
I do. But I'd rather stick my hand into a beehive than agree to that.
“I most assuredly do not!” I scoff and cross my hands under my breasts.
A second. Within one second, he is in my space, one of his hands circling my waist and pulling me flush against his hard chest. His other hand goes to hold the base of my hair, tugging on it harshly to make me look up at him. The lightness of his eyes is replaced by something dark and carnal, his nostrils flaring.
“If I shove my hand between these maddeningly thick legs,” the hand on my waist travels to my hip and then to the upper thigh, hitching my breath in the process. “Will I not find this cunt weeping for me?”
There should be a law against men with voices this deep, turning husky when he is turned on and talking dirty.
“Is it not clenching around nothing, crying for my cock to fill it to the brim? Until it bleeds and milks every drop of my cum? Is it not begging to be coated with my seed and fucked thoroughly until it remembers who owns it?”
I grow lightheaded from his words. My knees are weak, my vaginal walls clenching around nothing, wetness ruining my panties as I imagine the picture he paints for me. His grip on my hair tightens as his other hand squeezes my arse and pushes it into him, forcing me to feel his huge bulge.
“Next time you lie, make sure it isn’t pathetic.”