Thirty-Five
Skye
“Suck me,” he orders.
I hesitate.
Fear is blurring my senses. I haven’t looked around me. I don’t know who is there, and that unknown unsettles me. It makes me tremble.
“Like it’s just us,” he whispers down at me, prompting me to look up into his dark eyes. For a flash of a moment, they’re soft, and then hard all over again.
Like it’s just us…
I swallow, nodding once.
Then I wrap my hand around his length. He’s not hard, not at all. He must be exhausted, worn thin from that fight, and maybe uneasy too because his eyes dance around the room, his lips pressed together.
Taking a deep breath, I lap my tongue against the tip of him, and his reaction is immediate.
His entire body goes still. His head looks down, his eyes darting into mine. He doesn’t breathe, but his brows come together, and his lips part.
He looks…shocked.
I run my tongue down the length of his cock, and it jerks against my mouth, like it’s coming to life. I wrap my hand around him, the familiarity of it returning to me in a heady rush. I know what to expect next. I know that while my fingers barely touch as it is, by the time he is rock hard, I stand no chance taking him all the way into my mouth.
He grunts, and my body responds to that sound immediately.
I suck him faster, taking the tip in as far as I can go, cupping his balls to massage him. I remember what makes him tick. What makes him suck in his breath like he’s doing now. What makes him sound like he’s hurting when he’s at the height of his pleasure.
His hand is in my hair now. He takes hold of a fistful, balling it tight against my scalp, tugging my head back and forth at the tempo he wants.
He’s being harsh on purpose.
He’s playing the part, like I said.
But those sounds being ripped from his throat—they’re real and deep.
I feel wetness slide down my thigh.
I’m gushing for him, heady and tingling.
Despite the danger, he is effortlessly capable of reducing me to this wanting mess.
I taste his precum. I feel him thickening in my mouth, like he’s on the verge of exploding. His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling sharply as he moves me back and forth like I’m just a thing he’s using to fuck himself to orgasm.
Then he abruptly pulls out and I’m pulled to my feet, my hair ripping from my scalp. My head burns as I dazedly stand. His face is cool, but the veins in his throat betray him, throbbing and bulging. Still gripping my hair like a lead, he drags me across the room.
“Look down,” he growls, and I do.
I stare down at my bare feet as we walk over the cement floor, and I can hear it then. The shuffle of bodies. The quiet murmurs. The musky scent of other males.
Something heavy is being dragged across the floor, and before I know it, Savage is sitting down on a metal chair in the centre of a room, forcing me down into his lap.
When I glimpse up, I see the room we’re in.
A crowd of men, a few women dressed as bare as me.
Other chairs are strewn nearby and beds—
There are beds everywhere.