Page 57 of Dishonored

That was good enough for him.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, grinding her body against his for more. “Oh, my God.”

“You’ve got no self-control like this.”

And he liked it.

A lot.

“A pretty little slut under me,” he added.

Aria’s head tilted back with his next thrust, and her cry came out airless and broken. Caesar had both of his hands wrapped around the delicate line of her throat then, and he started to squeeze. Easy at first—just enough for her to feel it, and to take away her air a bit at a time. With every thrust, he squeezed a bit harder until her noises came out choked, and her eyes flew wide to find his.

She was so close to coming.

Shaking all over.

Sweat-slicked skin.

Pink from losing her air.

Mussed hair.

Smudged makeup.

Beautiful, really.

He found a wildness staring back at him—a desperate need to come or breathe or do something. Yet, she didn’t tap his arm. She didn’t want him to stop.

“Do you want to come?”

He got another nod.

“Would you beg for it?”

Please, her eyes blazed.

He released one hand from her throat, and slipped it up under her ass. All it took was his thumb sliding into the tight ring of her ass, and his fingers curving tight around her throat, and she was screaming.

His name never sounded better.

Caesar waited until she stopped shaking. He gave her that much time at least. And then he pulled from her wet cunt, and tugged the condom off before discarding it in a small bin under the coffee table. Moving around the arm of the couch, he already had his cock in hand, and waiting for her.

“Ask,” he demanded, “and then I’ll see what else I can do for you.”

She was already reaching for him.

Ready.

Wanting.

“May I finish you, please?”

Perfect, really.

Even if he hated her.

It took all of two days.