Page 39

“If I say blue, you stop making me do things.”

I hold her gaze. “Do you want me to stop?”

She doesn’t answer. Her hips keep moving, grinding against my thigh in slow, desperate circles that make her breath hitch with each rotation.

I tighten the belt again—just enough to remind her who’s in control. Her eyes flutter, her mouth falls open, and a sound tears out of her that’s half sob, half moan.

“Now you can come,” I tell her. “Come with my belt around your throat while riding my leg like the filthy girl you are.”

She shakes her head, but her body is already there—hips stuttering, thighs trembling as the orgasm builds and builds. Kira comes with a cry so beautiful I want to swallow it.

Her whole body convulses, her back arching, her bound wrists pulling against the silk tie hard enough that I hear the fabric strain.

She collapses against my chest, panting, sweat-damp hair sticking to her forehead. I give her thirty seconds. Maybe less before I tighten the belt again.

“That was one.”

Her eyes fly open. “Domenico, I can’t—”

“You can.” I rock my leg up, driving my thigh against her clit while tightening the belt. “You’re going to come again. Right now.”

She whimpers. But her hips are already moving, finding the rhythm again, like her body knows what it needs even when her mind is screaming. The second orgasm builds faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” I demand.

“Scary,” she croaks. “Good. It’s so good, and I’m scared, and I can’t… Domenico, I can’t breathe…”

I loosen the belt. Let her drag in a desperate breath. Then tighten it again as she crests, and she comes with a scream that echoes off the walls of my study, her body shuddering so hard I have to hold her hips to keep her on my thigh.

When it’s over, she slumps against me, trembling, her breath ragged. I remove the belt from her throat slowly, letting the leather slide free, and watch the red mark it leaves behind. Beautiful.

I help her to her feet. Her legs are unsteady, and she sways, catching herself on the edge of the desk. Her eyes are dazed, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

I reach into my jacket and pull out the folding knife I keep in the inner pocket. Italian steel, honed to an edge that’ll split hairs. Her eyes track the movement, widening slightly, but she doesn’t flinch.

I flick it open and bring the blade to the silk tie binding her wrists. One clean cut, and the fabric falls away. Her arms drop to her sides, and she flexes her fingers.

Then I catch the collar of her shirt with the blade and slice through the fabric until I can tear it from her body. Once she’s left only in her bra, I slide the tip beneath the bridge and pull until it splits.

Moving the knife to the top of the right cup, where it meets the strap, I slice through. Kira looks at the knife as I move it to the left cup. The knife slips a fraction—my hand is not as steady as it should be—and the tip catches the skin above her left breast.

“Ow!” she cries as a thin line of red wells up immediately, beading along the cut.

“Sorry,” I murmur as I cut the strap so the bra’s completely gone.

Instead of pulling away, she looks down at the blood with something like wonder in her eyes, her fingers hovering near the cut but not touching it.

“Let me kiss it better.”

I lean forward and press my mouth to her skin. My tongue finds the cut, warm and metallic, and I lick the blood away in one slow stroke that makes her moan—low and broken and desperate.

“Mmm,” she moans.

Tossing the knife to the side, I look at her face. Her eyes are black with want, her lips parted.

“Have you ever tasted your own blood?” I rasp.

When she shakes her head, I slam my lips to hers. Our tongues tangle, and I know she can taste her blood through the kiss. Needing to taste more of her, I break the kiss and move to her side. Then I sweep everything off the desk. Papers, glasses, and other shit all hit the floor with a crash.