Page 59 of Cold Bastard
Not a single goddamn thing.
All that mattered was her. The way she looked at me with those eyes. The curve of her neck. The sound of her breathing. And the intoxicating, dangerous fact that I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to her, and I knew she would let me.
My hand moved faster as my grip tightened, and the pressure built to an unbearable peak. I could feel it coming, could feel the release barreling toward me like a freight train.
And then I came. Violently. My body jerked, my hand still moving as I sprayed her body with my cum. It landed on her stomach, on her thighs, on the thin fabric of her tank top. Iwatched it happen, my vision blurring at the edges, my breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
Fuck. Fuck.
The release was overwhelming, and damn near left me shaking and spent, my hand still wrapped around my cock. And when I finally looked up, when I finally dragged my gaze away from the mess I had made on her body, I saw her face.
Her eyes were open.
Staring directly at me.
She had been watching.
Fuck.
Chapter Twenty
Nano
The second her mouth opened, I was on her.
My hand clamped over her lips before her scream could form, before she could make a single fucking sound. I leaned in close, so close I could feel her breath hot and panicked against my palm, could smell the fear radiating off her skin.
“You’re mine, Alexandra Jones.”
Her eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second. Shock. Recognition. The understanding that I knew exactly who she was, that the game was over, that there was nowhere left to run, and then they narrowed...defiantly. Even now, even with my cum drying on her stomach and my hand covering her mouth, she had the audacity to glare at me like she still had a choice in what happened next.
I grinned.
Fuck, I love her fire.
“You can fight,” I whispered, my voice low and rough. “Please fight me. I want you to fight. It’ll make this so much better.”
She tried to bite my hand. I felt her teeth scrape against my palm, felt the pressure as she attempted to clamp down. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just kept my hand pressed tight against her mouth as I hauled her out of the bed with my other arm. She kicked. Hard. Her heel connected with my shin, and I felt the sharp burst of pain shoot up my leg as I dragged her acrossthe hall, her body thrashing against mine, her muffled screams vibrating against my palm. She clawed my arm. Her nails dug into my skin and drew blood.
I could feel the warm trickle running down to my wrist.
I kicked open the door to my room and flung her inside. She stumbled forward, catching herself on her hands and knees, her hair falling in a wild curtain around her face as I stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind me, and locked it. The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place echoed through the room. Final. Absolute. I leaned back against the door, my eyes never leaving her as she slowly pushed herself up to her knees, then to her feet. Her chest heaved, her tank top still stained with my cum, her shorts riding low on her hips as she looked around the room, taking it all in.
My king-sized bed dominated the center of the space, black sheets pulled tight, four posts rising toward the ceiling. My computer setup was in the corner. Three monitors glowed faintly in the dim light. The wall of screens opposite the bed, each one dark and waiting. And then her eyes landed on the photographs, and I smirked.
Black and white. Framed. Arranged in a grid that covered nearly the entire wall. Women. Bound. Gagged. Chained. Cuffed. Some were suspended from the ceiling, their bodies stretched and vulnerable. Others were bent over furniture, their wrists and ankles secured, their faces hidden or turned away. A few were on their knees, collars around their throats, leashes held by hands just out of frame. Every single one of them was a study in submission. In surrender. Captured at the moment their resistance finally broke.
Alex stepped back, her spine hitting the opposite wall. Her breathing was ragged now, her eyes wide as she stared at the images, and then she spun around and gasped.
The wall behind her was different.
Canes. Whips. Floggers. Paddles. Crops. All of them hung in neat rows, organized by type and severity. Leather restraints dangled from hooks. Chains coiled on shelves. Cuffs—wrist, ankle, collar, all lined up like surgical instruments. And at the center of it all, mounted on a custom rack, was a collection of implements I had spent years perfecting. A single-tail whip, the leather worn smooth from use. A cane made of rattan, flexible and unforgiving. A flogger with dozens of falls, each one capable of delivering a different sensation depending on how it was wielded.
And others.
So many others.
She turned back to face me, her back pressing against the wall, her hands flat against the surface like she was trying to push herself through it. “What the fuck is this?” Her voice shook, but there was still that edge of defiance. Still that spark.
