Page 116 of Tamed Enemy
They’re not angry anymore, not weeping with the heat of fresh wounds. Instead, the crimson I first brought out has mellowed to the burgundy of fine wine. The slashes match the ladders on her thighs, the scars she gave herself over all the years before I knew her.
Leaving behind all the tools I chose except for the blindfold, I cross the room until I can feel the heat rising off her body. I plant one hand by her face and lean in with all my weight. “What do you think you’re doing, my dear?”
“Whatever you want,” she says, her words muffled against the wall. “Sir.” But she arches her back dramatically as she says it, rising on the balls of her feet to push her ass toward my crotch.
I’m the one in charge here. I decide what we do and how we do it, when she comes, and how many times. But she’s sending me a message. She’s telling me she’s not afraid of what happened in Kynk. She trusts me to keep her safe here, even if I choose to fuck her tight puckered rosebud again.
I don’t want her ass.
I slip the blindfold over her eyes, tying it tight at the back of her head. When she turns her cheek to the wall, I take advantage of her still-arched spine. I slip my hand between her thighs, launching three fingers to find her hot, slick entrance. I tap her clit as a form of warning, and then I fuck her with my hand, driving hard, driving fast, using my body to pin her against the wall.
She’s on the edge before I think she possibly can be, her mouth stretched into a rigid O beneath the blindfold. She balances on her tiptoes, stretching her thighs. Her ass presses against me, teasing the hard-on that tents my pants.
“More,” she whispers. “Please. Please. More.”
When I back away, her sigh of frustration turns her wild. “Fucking shitehawk,” she says, and more in Irish that I’m sure is even worse.
I go back for the gag after all.
I want her to know her mouth is mine, the way I own all the rest of her body. But I need her still able to talk. I need her free to use her safeword, because I’m not sure she can bear what I intend.
Not after what happened the last time we played in this room.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I buckle the gag around her head. It fastens below the blindfold. I guide the O-ring around her lips, stretching her mouth wide, stealing her words. She demands again: “What are you doing?” but now she can only make the vowels: uh, ah, oo, oo-ee. That’s enough. I’ll be able to hear the difference betweenredandyellowandgreen.
She screams in frustration.
I mean to make her scream with more than that.
It’s back to the armoire for me. This time I move quickly; I don’t want her losing the desperate bravery of a body on the edge of coming.
I drop the new tool on the emerald-covered bed, making sure it doesn’t warn her with a jangle. It’s easy enough to catch her arms before I walk her across the room. I make her climb onto the mattress and balance on all fours.
Her feet spasm as I lean onto the bed, holding her thighs apart with my shoulders so I can bury my face in her exposed pussy. She squeals through the gag. It doesn’t take long for my tongue to find the same rhythm that worked with my fingers. My strokes are long and deep as I drink her down, knowing my rough beard is pricking her most tender parts.
Her elbows give way. Her toes sharpen to points. Her breath comes through the gag in short, harsh grunts.
And I pull away just before she breaks.
This time, she howls, not even trying to force out words. She’s panting, desperate to fill her lungs. I know if I pull her hair and force her to look at me, her chin will shine with the spit she cannot swallow.
But I don’t pull her hair—not yet. Instead, I reach for the tool beside us.
I open the first cuff steadily, pulling on its leather buckle, making sure the hardware jangles. I don’t want to take her completely by surprise. I don’t want shock making her shout her safeword. I repeat the process with three other cuffs.
She’s caught on now. She may not be certain, but her brain is shouting warnings. She cranes her neck, trying to see, trying to hear, trying to know what happens next.
I grasp her right ankle firmly and lock it into the spreader, pulling the leather through its buckle so tightly that I fasten the lock on the last punched hole. She screams at the contact, kicking out with her free leg, but I grab that too and cuff it into place.
This isn’t the spreader she used on Pyotr Tarasov. That one was carried out of here when Sawgrass destroyed all evidence ofour crimes. But her ankles are trapped, the same way she pinned the man she went on to kill.
I want to help her. I want to take her beyond the past, beyond everything that’s happened—but only if she’s ready to come with me.
“Ooooh,” she moans through the gag, which I’m pretty sure isno, but I know isn’tred.
All the same, I lean close to her ear and hiss, “What’s your color?”
She hesitates, her sides heaving. I repeat my question, in case the wires in her brain are too scrambled by terror for her to make sense of the words. “What is your color,” I ask again, each word simple and calm.
