I hesitate. Of course I do.
Because what the hell is happening? Because I don’t know him. Because I shouldn’t just—
But then reality settles in again.
He bought me, which means he owns me now. And I have to do everything he asks me to.
So I slowly start to undress myself. The shirt slides off easily, pooling at my waist before I push it the rest of the way down. My skin prickles under his gaze. I can feel it.
My fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear. I pause for a second.
“Do I—” I hesitate, my voice lower now.
“Do I have to take these off too?”
“Yes.”
The fabric slides down my legs. And suddenly—
I’m completely naked. Exposed. Right in front of this masked stranger. Who now owns me.
“Get on the bed,” he says.
I hesitate for half a second. Then I move. Climb back onto the mattress, my pulse pounding in my ears.
My chest tightens. Because I know what will happen next.
This man owned me in all the ways you can think of. Except one. And now he’s about to change that as well. And after this moment I’ll fully belong to him.
The red light bleeds across the walls like a slow wound, turning everything the color of dried roses. The air smells like leather and something sharper—whiskey, maybe, or the metallic tang of the cuffs still biting into my wrists. I’m flat on my back on the bed, the black silk sheets slick beneath my skin, cool where my sweat hasn’t soaked through yet. My chest rises and falls too fast, my cock already half-hard just from the way he’s looking at me. His mask is still on. When he was taking the cuffs off, he was so close, I was able to see the color of his eyes. Those gray eyes—complete opposite of my hazel ones, and colder, like steel left in the snow—track down my body like he’s deciding where to start carving.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. His weight shifts as he crawls up the bed, the muscles in his arms flexing under the tight black sleeves of his shirt. The mattress dips underhim, the headboard creaking when he straddles my chest. His thighs bracket my ribs, heavy, unyielding. The heat of him seeps through my skin. I can feel the ridge of his cock through his pants, thick and impatient, pressing against my sternum. My pulse jumps when his fingers find the button of his slacks. The zipper hisses down. No rush. Just the slow, deliberate reveal of what he’s packing—what I’m about to choke on.
His dick springs free, already flushed dark at the tip, the vein along the underside throbbing. Precum glistens in the red light, a silver bead welling at the slit. My mouth waters. I lick my lips, and his cock jerks in response, like it’s hungry for attention.Myattention. His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking just enough to tilt my head back. The angle forces my throat open.
“Tongue out,” he orders, voice rough as gravel.
I obey.
The first touch of him is salty-sweet, the precum slick on my tongue. I lap at the crown, swirling around the ridge, and his breath hitches. His grip tightens. The sound he makes—low, guttural—vibrates through his chest, down into mine. I hollow my cheeks, taking more of him in, but he’s too thick. My jaw aches almost immediately. I gag when the head hits the back of my throat, tears pricking my eyes. He doesn’t let up. Just holds me there, watching my struggle with something like pride.
“That’s it, Angel” he murmurs, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
“Take what you can.”
I try. Really, I do. But he’s too much—too wide, too heavy.
My lips stretch obscenely around him, spit dripping down my chin. I pull back, gasping, and his cock slaps wetly against my tongue. The sound is filthy. Degrading. My dick twitches, leaking against my stomach. He notices. Of course he does.
One hand stays tangled in my hair, guiding me back to his cock. The other reaches for the nightstand. The lube bottlemakes a wet, squelching sound when he squeezes it. Cool gel drips onto my shaft, and then his fingers are there, slick and sure, stroking me in slow, maddening pulls. My hips jerk up into his touch, but he pins me down with his thighs, keeping me still.
“Greedy little slut,” he observes, thumbing over my slit.
“Already dripping for me.”
I whimper around his cock. The dual sensations—his dick filling my mouth, his fingers working me—are too much. My balls draw up tight, the orgasm coiling low in my gut. But just as I’m about to tip over, his grip shifts. His fingers loosens. The rhythm stutters. Denied.
“Not yet,” he growls.