Page 47 of Viper’s Reign

Not blubbering enough, comes the reply.

His tongue flicks at my clit in rapid, wet laps as his fingers sink back in, scissoring and stretching my soaked heat while his thumb grinds against my entrance. Pleasure sparks white and blinding, and I scream his name, my body arching off the mattress, wrists straining against the ropes as the climax barrels toward me⁠—

He pulls back, denying me—again.

“Dimitri, please,” I groan, tears leaking helplessly into the blindfold. “Don’t stop.”

He leans in and repeats the torture. Sucking my aching clit until it pulses in his mouth, fingers thrusting deep until I’m dripping down his wrist, pleasure cresting and cresting until I’m right there, and then… nothing. Gone.

Again and again, he edges me—bringing me to the trembling brink and withdrawing, each time leaving me more desperate than the last.

It’s torture.

Sweat slicks my skin, my body trembling nonstop now as my mind dissolves into a haze where nothing exists but the desperate, clawing need for release.

More tears soak the blindfold, broken pleas spilling from my mouth, uncontrollable.

“Please, Dimitri,” I beg. “Please, let me come. I need it so bad—fuck, I need you.” My voice breaks, my pride forgotten.

“You beg so prettily. So, for you, I’ll…” His voice turns rough as he starts again, and hope surges through me—this time, surely this time. He stiffens his tongue against my slit and thrusts it inside, fingers rolling my clit without mercy, and I sob, because it’s still not enough. Not enough, not enough, not enough. My hips buck uselessly against my restraints. I’m so close, so impossibly close, I just need⁠—

He pulls away again.

My temper snaps like a twig. “You asshole!” My voice shatters on the words, tears streaming freely now. “You’re a demon, you motherfucking basta—aghhh!”

His cock slams into me in one deep, brutal thrust.

The scream that tears out of me is primal, the sudden fullness of him combined with the insane pressure on my clit igniting everything at once. The orgasm detonates through me—waves crashing and crashing, my walls clamping down on him in violent spasms, my whole body convulsing, my wetness gushing down his cock and seeping through the crack of my ass. It goes on and on, the climax never ending, while I scream myself hoarse, my throat burning with it.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out through his teeth, then follows me over, his cock throbbing through the latex of the condom, his thrusts carrying me through every last tremor until I finally go limp and sink into the mattress with nothing left.

He sags against me, and for a moment my ears still ring with echoes of my scream, my body overheating, heart pounding in my throat. Then, with a muffled curse, he lifts his weight off me and undoes the blindfold, peeling the damp fabric away from my face.

I blink up at the ceiling as he frees my wrists, then my ankles. “Hey.” He tilts my chin until I’m looking at him, and my heart aches at how gentle he is, at the quiet concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“That was torture,” I croak, my voice barely there.

“No.” He shakes his head, smirking. “That was fun.”

With that, he helps me sit up, and my face heats when I register the state of the sheets—a wide, damp patch spreading beneath where I was.

I did that?

No, he did that to you.

Dimitri doesn’t comment on the mess as he gets off the bed and removes his condom with a flourish. I lick my lips as I watch him tie it off, following him while he crosses the room to toss it into the trash.

When he turns back, he’s already dragging his pants up over his hips. He raises a brow when he catches me ogling him, and I shrug unabashedly.

“You know, just because you used a condom this time doesn’t make up for the fact that you⁠—”

Before I can finish, he closes the distance between us. A moment later, I’m in his arms, bridal style. “Dimitri!” My arms wrap around his neck instinctively.

“Hush now, Plamyashka. Save your voice for next time.”

He carries me toward the door, and for the first time, I get a glimpse of the room.

To my surprise, it’s not a bedroom. Not really. Paddles hang on the walls. Cuffs. Strange devices I don’t recognize. But my exhaustion is bone-deep, and I’m too tired to even think about questioning him.