But I’m not fooled.
To prove as much, I stomp loudly downstairs and steal one of Ena’s meals from the freezer. I eat while scowling and contemplate taking one of his fancy sports cars and attempting once more to send the poor man into bankruptcy.
Instead, I find myself bounding right back upstairs and towing the boundary of that mysterious room. He’s still here, assembling yet another unknown wooden structure. Sweat glistens on his brow, and he’s left the first few buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the scar along his throat. He looks so intent on his task, he doesn’t seem to notice me until I strut boldly to the platform.
Up close, I start to get an inkling of what it might be, and my heart skips a beat. The red cushion is the ideal size and width to comfort a woman’s torso if, say she happened to be leaning across it—and those manacles are in the perfect position to capture her wrists and keep her immobile.
Like some sexy, taboo pillory.
My heart sinks, poisoned by yet even more jealousy. I swear, my vision goes green. I can’t help myself. Like any scorned creature, I attempt to go right for his jugular.
“Nice to see that your research into kink won’t end with me,” I say coldly, placing my hand down within his line of sight. I can’t stop myself from fingering the curve of one of the manacles as burning hot envy unfurls in my chest. So much for his supposed ignorance when it comes to kink. He seems to be well prepared to welcome his next conquest and indulge her fully. “I hope your new fake wife is a prude—”
He snatches my wrist before I can truly process the action. With an easy display of strength, he flattens my palm against the platform. Clink. The manacle encircles my wrist and stunned, I tug, surprised when it doesn’t budge.
“What the hell?”
He grabs my other wrist and secures it within the other manacle just as quickly. Then he backs away from the platform entirely, escaping my limited view. Panic sends my heartbeat racing as I crane my neck, desperate to track his movements.
“What the hell are you doing? Vadim!” My voice rings out, trembling with a hint of uncertainty. “Vadim!”
Within seconds, he reappears directly across from me, dragging a black stool behind him. Calmly, he sits, placing his hands on either knee. Our gazes meet, and a tendril of unease races down my spine. I’m suddenly aware of my new piercing, grazing my clit, enhancing the burning sting I’ve barely grown accustomed to. But it’s anything but painful. Stubbornly, I strive to ignore the sensation in favor of baring my teeth at him.
“Get me out of this!”
He cocks his head to the side and leans back on his stool. I sense that he’s waiting for something—like a dog trainer waiting for the naughty mutt to remember one command or the other.
“You fucking bastard!” I strain at my binds, hissing in exasperation. “Let. Me. Go!”
Something unreadable flashes through his dark eyes, and I stiffen, falling silent. A subtle softening of his jaw is my reward, and I watch, riveted as he lifts one of his hands and lowers it to his fly.
With envious dexterity, he has it open in seconds, palming his cock. Holy crap. He moves slowly in firm, deliberate strokes that have him hardening in a shocking display that leaves me gasping.
“W-What are you doing?” I try to sound angry, but awe laces my tone instead. Shit. Shit. Shit. I want to seethe, and rage, and scream.
But he is impressive even from this angle. His piercing stands erect, swallowed by the swelling flesh until the rounded ends of the barbell are all that remain visible.
Well aware of my drifting attention, his eyes ruthlessly seek mine out as he manipulates his straining cock. Stroke after stroke leaves him pulsating, but his expression remains unchanged. Unreadable. Cold. Undeniably sexy…
No. “S-Stop!” I shake my head and struggle against my binds, making the metal clang. “What the hell are you doing?”
He does stop, his hand stilling, his gaze unmoving. For seconds. Longer. Unbearably long. I squirm, my lips parting for another demand.
The second they do, he starts to stroke himself again, rendering me silent. As my lips close, he strokes faster. Again. Soon, his entire body is rocking with the motion, his cock straining in his grasp. Beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe the sight. Any words die in my throat as his hand moves even faster. Surer. The longer he pleasures himself, the more I lose my train of thought.
Men like him don’t exhibit themselves lightly. It’s an intentional display, I suspect. Meant for me alone. To tease me. Shatter me. Chastise…
And it’s cruel, unusual punishment. I’m senseless, lost in the whirlpool of conflicting emotions. Shame. Rage. Need. Musings of anger quickly turn to imagining how he would taste, let alone feel if I tried to take him from this angle. As if reading my mind, he stands, letting his pants fall down to his ankles, baring himself completely. Slowly, he advances, his hand still moving, muscles straining beneath his skin.
I don’t even realize that my mouth is already open until he cups my chin, tilting it so that I’m forced to look up at him. His thumb traces my lower lip as he bucks his hips. And I don’t hesitate.
A groan rips through me as his taste explodes over my tongue, and I eagerly lap at the crown. My eyes roll, and I forget all about hating him. Fellating him on the bed was one thing. But this…
It’s so different.
The angle forces him deeper, and I have to tilt my throat to better accept his length. Bound and immobile, all I can do is take
