Page 115 of Dishonored

Tightening that tie hard around Raffe’s head, Caesar moved in front of the man, and bent down to be at eye-level with him when Aria stepped back. “She gets tart and hot and sweet. It coats your tongue, and you just want to hear her fucking scream for you. She likes it best when you bend her over, and pin her down. But she’ll really fucking holler if you—”

Raffe jerked forward in the chair.

Caesar didn’t even flinch—no, he laughed. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going to go, huh?”

He smacked the man’s leg with his closed fist.

“You’re stuck here, fucker,” he added. “Back to that vicious wife of yours, though. Bet you’ve never got a taste of her from behind, have you? Spread open like a buffet, and shaking while she begs you to stick a finger or two up her ass. Christ, she’ll really shout for that. And damn, when you choke her …”

Caesar trailed off with a husky noise, and a shake of his head. “That’s when she gets really wild. That’s when she’ll do just about anything for you. That’s when her skin gets soft, and hot, and her pussy gets as wet as a fucking lake. It almost feels like she’s squeezing your dick so hard, it’s going to break off. But you just keep choking and fucking her because that’s what she wants—except you don’t know that at all, do you? You don’t know the kind of woman you had in your bed. Shame, really.”

Behind his gag, Raffe shouted and mumbled unintelligible words. Caesar had a mind to tear off the man’s gag just to hear his shame and horror—even if the fucker would only try to hide it by cursing and raging—but Aria stopped him with one simple question.

One question that made his dick hard.

That killed him instantly.

That drove him crazy.

“Want to see, Raffe?”

Sweet.

Hot.

And yes, vicious.

Caesar grinned at the widening of Raffe’s eyes, and the way the man’s struggles stilled at the seemingly innocent question. And then she asked it again.

“Do you want to see what you’ve missed?”

“Yes, do you want to see how I can make your wife come with just my fingers, and then how good she looks while she rides my cock?”

Because fuck yeah, he was up for that.

All of that.

Raffe shook his head wildly, and behind the gag, Caesar could still hear the man refusing. No, no, no. A chant of his refusals that fell on deaf ears—refusals that mixed in with Raffe’s desperate, muffled laughter.

Not because he was amused, no.

But because he was stunned.

Because he was horrified.

And disgusted.

Good.

That’s what he should be.

Standing straight, Caesar said, “I bet this wasn’t how you expected this night to go down, was it? Yeah, your wife has been surprising me since the moment I saw her sitting in that club.”

Caesar moved to stand beside Aria at the table, but she still didn’t look away from Raffe. There was something in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe. Relief, no doubt. Maybe she felt like it was almost over, and that’s what it was.

He didn’t know.

Caesar flashed his hand at Raffe a second before he grazed the back of Aria’s bare upper thigh where the skirt of her dress came to rest. “I like these dresses she wears,” he told the man, “because it’s easy access.”