Page 61 of Wicked Vile King
"I need you to say it."
"I understand," she whispers.
I slide over her body, lifting my upper half between her legs and kissing her there, atop her panties, pressing my lips right over her pussy.
She goes completely still, so still I'd think she was dead if I couldn't hear her breath crinkling the plastic.
"See, pet," I tell her, breathing over the sensitive flesh, "the dark isn't so scary when my mouth is on you, is it?"
She doesn't answer, and I don't wait for a reply. Rocking back on my hips, my toes stretching to the floor, I reach between her legs and spread her wider, exposing her to me. Then I kiss her, still over the fabric of her soaked panties, and she spasms again.
She gasps as I inhale her. She smells like roses, and holy fuck, it's not going to take anything to make her come. Normally, I wouldn't care—my partners have always been happy to accept what I give them—but something in me wants her to come for me andonly me.She's so ready, either from my fucking Isla or the fear or just me, I don't know. She's a lit fuse, ready to be set on fire. I grab the inside of her thighs again and spread her even wider. Then I don't hesitate.
I devour her, flattening my tongue and biting her clit sheathed by her panties. I lick her, and lick and lick, straight up her center, the inside of her thighs pressed against my ears. She shakes and shivers beneath me, moaning unintelligible words, as she reaches down and fists my hair, drawing it tight in her hands. Fuck if the sight of her hands peeking out from the bag doesn't spur me on, and I scrape my teeth across her, until she comes, seizing on the table. I lick her through it, groaning at the rub of wet cotton on my tongue.
She holds onto my hair through her orgasm, and her breath is loud, echoing underneath the plastic and coming faster and faster before I speak to her, my voice soft and hushed.
"Pet," I murmur against the body bag, "you taste like fear and salt when you come."
A moment later, I unzip the bag unceremoniously, grab the collar I made for her from my back pocket—carefully stolen back from Dr. Cross's office—and fasten it around her throat. Then, as she lies there, a sheen of sweat on her skin, her hair frizzy and messy from the bag, and looking freshly fucked, I command her to say it.
"Say what?" she replies, her gaze wide and confused.
"Repeat after me," I tell her, looking down at her lying perfect and pale on the autopsy table.
"I'm . . ." I begin.
"I'm," she repeats.
"Your," I say.
"Your," she repeats.
"Pet."
"Pet."
"Good girl," I praise, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Now get dressed. Next time, you return the favor."
17
WILLOW
It's been one day since I accepted being Saint Laurier's pet, though I still don't know exactly what that means. It feels like I am watching a dream of myself, where my memories are not my own and my thoughts are someone else's. It feels like at any moment I'm going to blink, and everything I thought was real is going to crumble at my feet.
Yesterday, I let him lead me back through the tunnels and out of the darkness, where it reeked of rotten water and old air. Then I let him tug me by the collar and kiss me once, quick and hard, in the abandoned classroom before he disappeared, off to his own mandatory therapy session with Dr. Cross.
He didn't show up for lunch.
Or for dinner.
And part of me thinks maybe I really did imagine it.
But the dampness in my panties proves otherwise and I still feel the burn from the blush of watching him with another.
My mind whirls with possibilities.
I could tell Dr. Cross. I could have him sent back to the hole, if he's here, that is. It's not too late, I don't think, and then I could pretend that he didn't put his mouth where no one ever had before, that he didn't make me see stars in the dark, even as I existed on the edge of hyperventilating, the body bag crinkling with each draw of my breath.
