A sound of victory.
Or maybe hunger.
Then—without warning—she flicks her tongue across the head of my cock, and I nearly break the handcuffs then and there.
I hiss.
Arch.
Her grip tightens, keeping me pinned. She giggles at the reaction, delighted. Sadist.
She leans in, mouth hovering just millimeters from my skin.
And the last thing I see before everything disappears into sensation is the look in her eyes—hungry, crazed, determined to ruin me in every way possible.
I hope she does, and I never recover.
The first real touch of her tongue is like a current—electric, devastating, aimed straight at the root of me.
She licks once, slow, a lazy swirl around the head that makes my hips jerk up off the mattress. She’s grinning, the little psycho, lips parted in a smile that’s half seduction, half threat. Her hand still works me with merciless precision—down, squeeze, twist, up, thumb across the slit to gather the slick there and paint it over and over, like she’s trying to leave her mark in biology as well as in mind.
Every muscle in my body is tight.
My biceps flex against the cuffs, the cold metal biting in, a perfect counterpoint to the heat gathering between my legs.
I’ve never been this desperate—never so totally at someone’s mercy, not in the troupe, not in the cartel, not even on nights when violence was a promise instead of a gamble.
This is a new kind of bondage.
Voluntary.
Worshipful.
She watches the effect she has on me.
Every time my thighs tense, she giggles—manic, delighted, head tilting just a little so pink hair falls across her cheek. Shetucks the stray strands behind her ear with her left hand, then resumes her mission, tongue flicking out for another taste.
She’s enjoying this.
That much is obvious.
Not from obligation. Not from some internalized script about Omega obedience.
She’s getting off on the power.
She slides lower, positioning herself between my knees so she can look up at me as she opens her mouth—letting out an unhinged little sigh, like this is the best seat in the house and she wants everyone to know.
Then she takes me in.
Hot.
Wet.
Inch by inch, so slow I want to scream.
Her lips wrap the head, sealing over the crown while her tongue flattens beneath, tracing the sensitive underside. She moves down another fraction, then up, then back down, gradually taking more, more, never all at once, always drawing out the moment like she’s savoring every fraction of my surrender.
My eyes roll back.
