Page 65 of Wicked Vile King
"I can't," I say, my bottom lip trembling as the tardy bell rings.
"Fine," he hisses bitterly as I pry his fingers from my throat. "Have it your way."
He catches my wrist, something shiny in his hand.
Is that a knife?
"What is that?" I manage through my sobs, my chest and shoulders still shaking as the rest of me goes very still.
He raises a thick eyebrow at me.
"Did you think I'd leave the hole empty-handed?" he chuckles darkly and shakes his head. "Never, pet."
He grabs my forearm and jerks me close, shoving my sleeve farther up and exposing all of the ugly pink flesh. He kisses me there softly but doesn't let go. My heart knocks against my ribs as he lifts the blade to my flesh, tracing the line of my scar.
We both watch, me frozen and him mesmerized.
"Beautiful," he murmurs as he digs it in a little deeper, the blade catching on my skin, and I hiss as blood colors the blade.
"It hurts," I say, trying to pull away, but he's holding me so tight, his fingers crunching tendon against bone, and I can't move.
He digs the edge of the scalpel in further and blood stains the polished steel before he lifts it away, pocketing the knife, and raising his hand. He runs his thumb across the open but shallow wound, painting his flesh red, before he lifts my arm to his lips, jerking me even closer. He kisses the cut, his eyes shutting as he does so. He moans loudly at the taste, the sound vibrating through me, before he releases me, his gaze catching on mine.
"On your knees, pet," he tells me.
When I hesitate, he hooks his finger around the metal ring of the collar and reels me in close, letting the leather bite into the back of my neck.
"Last chance, pet, before I take what's mine and make you bleed."
I know he isn't talking about the blood dripping slowly down my wrist, and my heart pounds as he shoves me to the floor, my knees meeting stone.
His tongue flicks over a canine as he undoes his belt and drops his pants so that they hang loose at his hips. Then he shoves his black boxers down, freeing himself.
Oh my God.
It's larger than I thought—monstrous even—thick and long and darker than the rest of him. I watch as he strokes himself from root to tip, and I may not be experienced, but I know what my old friends back home used to talk about. I watch as pre-cum drips off the tip and hits the floor.
"Open your mouth," he commands, and I do.
"Lips around your teeth."
I do.
He grips the back of my hair, pulling my mouth down onto his dick. And it hurts, like knives stabbing at my jaw as the taste of soap detonates on my tongue.
"Hollow your cheeks," he orders with a hiss, his fingers scraping against my scalp, "and suck."
I'm warm all over, heat curling into a tight ball in my belly as I do what I am told. I take him in as far as I can, which admittedly isn't far, gagging when he's barely halfway. He threads his fingers in my hair and rocks his hips.
"Goddamn," he purrs, all of him vibrating against me, "just like that."
He rocks forward, thrusting his pelvis again, and then both of his hands are at the back of my head, holding me tight.
Faster, harder, rougher.
He takes what he wants until I am crying, snot clogging my nostrils, tears blurring my vision, and daggers slicing through my jaw.
In and out, over and over again. It's hard to breathe as he fucks my face, pushing past my gag reflex. I relax my throat as he thrusts, his balls hitting my chin as he accepts what I give and takes even more.
