“Stop helping,” he ordered her, and even with his cock out, clearly about to enter her, he sounded...exactly the same. Cool. Remote.
She shuddered.
“You’re a fuck toy, Rory,” he said, the way other men might read love poetry. “You’re a tight, hot pussy I’m going to use to get myself off. You don’t have to do anything at all but take it.”
Those words tumbled through her, leaving marks she couldn’t identify. They could have been wounds, badges of honor, or new tattoos she would wear proudly—but all of them felt like fire. Conrad gripped her, his fingers digging into her ass, and then he slammed her down onto his cock. Sheathing himself fully in one hard thrust.
Rory came in a delicious, almost terrifying rush.
But that didn’t stop him. He lifted her and then he slammed her down again.
Over and over.
That first orgasm was vicious, thorough. It about knocked her out, but there was too much happening for her to let that happen, to fully fall off that edge.
Every time he slammed her down hard, he buried his cock completely inside of her, and each time he was almost too big. So big, she thought it might have hurt if she hadn’t been quite as wet as she was. The fact that he had neither checked, nor made certain, made something thorny and bright unfurl inside of her.
And some part of her wished it had hurt a little, so she could revel in that.
He was absolutely true to his word. Conrad held her tightly and levered her up and down, over and over, creating the rhythm he wanted.
The truth was that Rory couldn’t have helped if she’d wanted to. Her toes touched the floor, but they had no purchase because he kept lifting her up and slamming her down as he pleased.
And those chains were demonic.
Because every time he was thrust fully inside her, the chains from the ceiling tugged on her nipples. Just enough to make those clamps bite at her, as if they were new.
Her wrists were still bound behind her back, so she was nothing but an offering to him. A fuck toy, as he’d said, and the more those words careened around inside her, the more she felt them like his mouth on her clit.
Her breasts were thrust forward in this position and the way he was holding her, arching her back, she could do absolutely nothing but feel the twin wallop of his cock so deep inside her and that bright tension in her nipples.
The second time she came, she screamed.
But Conrad kept going, fucking her deep and hard, giving no quarter.
His eyes were so dark and that stern expression had given way to pure intensity.
His fingers dug deep into her ass cheeks, pulling them apart as he lifted and dropped her, and that added to it. A wicked little stretch where she least expected it, and somewhere in there, between all those points of pain and the relentless onslaught of wild orgasms, the pressure at her throat and her bound arms, the way her toes kissed the floor but never held, Rory felt herself...bloom.
It was almost as if she lost track of herself, even though she had never been more aware of every square inch of her body than she was now.
She was more aware of Conrad. His cock like a weapon, like a blessing, hard and huge and something like magic as he worked it in and out of her, never in any kind of rhythm that she could anticipate. Never anything she could get used to.
And there was a point at which she could no longer tell if she was coming or about to come. It was all coming, it seemed to her, and something far better and brighter than a mere orgasm.
The more she simply let it happen, the more it happened. The more she seemed to feel herself spin out and fall back into all the ways he held her—collar and cuffs, clamps and his cock, the more she felt like herself.
But when she thought of herself, she thought of him. As if he amplified her. Enhanced her. As if in that place where his cock was too deeply buried in her and she was too wide-open to bear, they were the same.
Rory came again at that thought, in a bright, delirious wave of forever, and then he held her there. He kept her down hard on his cock, then held her there while she jerked and moaned. Something flashed, dark and wicked, over his austere, beautiful face.
And then she felt him tug at those clamps. But this time, he removed them. She opened her mouth to thank him, but that was when a new, different kind of searing pain shot through her, burning up from her nipples, connecting to all the other sensations inside her, and hurtling her into a deeper, harder abyss.
“That’s the blood coming back,” Conrad told her, his voice still completely unaffected by what he was doing, which only made the way she was falling apart worse.
Or better.
And then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her cuffed hands to the small of her back. He held her and he fucked her, hard, so that everything was that pain, and everything was pleasure, and she was nothing but a lush streak of sensation, existing only for every deep, life-altering stroke of his cock.