Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
I nod, biting the pillow so I don’t scream.
“You like hurting, don’t you?”
This time I can’t muster a denial. Blue leans down, brushes his lips over my eyelids, my cheekbones, the corner of my mouth. It’s weirdly intimate, like he’s trying to memorize me at my most helpless.
Then he’s up again, rubbing his cock along the mess between my legs, not letting himself in, just torturing me with the possibility. When he finally thrusts, it’s with a single, brutal push that steals the air from my lungs. I arch up, caught between the pain and the relief of finally having him inside me.
He starts fucking, slow and deep, then gradually losing control until his hips are slamming into me so hard that the headboard hammers the wall with every stroke. I’m mewling, babbling, making sounds I haven’t heard from myself before.
Blue watches my face the whole time, eyes locked on mine. “Good girl,” he says again, and the words twist something in my chest.
“You’re mine now, Saylor. Understand?”
I nod because I really can’t do anything else, and he makes it quite clear every time he has his cock buried inside me.
The handcuffs hurt, but I do like the pain. They anchor me in the moment, make everything sharper. I lose count of how many times he brings me to the edge and yanks me back, like he’s tuning an instrument by feel.
When he finally lets me come, it’s because he wants to watch me lose my mind, wants proof of what he’s done. And I do—I shatter, the whole world narrowing to a white-out of sensation, all nerves blaring at once. I think I scream, and maybe I cry, but Blue just keeps going, eyes never leaving my face.
He finishes with a low growl, pulls out and comes all over my stomach and tits, painting me in salt and proof. Then he untangles the cuffs and gathers me up against his chest, soothing until I come back to myself.
We lie there in the aftermath, my body raw and humming, his heart pounding through my skull where it rests against his sternum. He strokes my hair, gentle again, like I’m a thing worth treasuring.
“I don’t want you sneaking around anymore,” Blue says, soft but firm. “If you want to know something, ask me.”
I nod, dazed, but already curiosity is rekindling in my gut. “Will you tell me?”
He thinks it over, then answers, “Not tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saylor
Waking up alone in Blue’s bed is like the morning after the best concert of your life. Everything’s quiet, but your ears are still ringing. The pillow still smells like whatever expensive soap he uses, mixed with something that’s just him. My body aches in interesting places, a roadmap of last night’s activities. The faint red marks around my wrists have faded, but I can still remember the weight of those handcuffs.
A piece of paper rests on the pillow beside me, written in that precise handwriting that screams expensive education.
Had to handle something. Back soon. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone. - B
The note should be reassuring. Instead, it makes me realize how enormous and empty this house is when it’s just me rattling around in it. Every footstep echoes off the vaulted ceilings, turning my morning routine into a one-woman percussion section.
I slip back to my room wearing one of Blue’s shirts—a white button-down that hangs to my thighs. The fabric is stupidly soft, which explains why rich people always look so pleased with themselves.
Getting dressed means choosing armor for a battle I haven’t figured out how to fight yet. I pick a vintage-inspired dress in deep emerald because green makes me feel powerful. My hair goes up in a simple chignon today—something sleek and controlled—and my lipstick is dark red like the doors of Grimlock.
If I’m going to plan my first successful murder, I should look the part. Fake it until you make it, right?
Wren has breakfast waiting in the smaller dining room. And by smaller, I mean it seats only twelve people instead of twenty. Even Blue’s idea of cozy could house a small government.
“Just coffee and toast,” I tell her, settling into one of the antique chairs.
“You need more than that. Can’t plot revenge on an empty stomach.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Plot revenge?”
“Whatever you want to call what you and Blue are up to.” Wren sets down toast that’s golden and perfect. “Point is, you need fuel.”
“Speaking of Blue, where is he exactly?” I ask, trying to sound casual while spreading what’s clearly butter that comes from cows with trust funds. “His note was pretty vague about this ‘something’ he had to handle.”
Wren’s energy changes slightly, a careful neutral that means she knows more than she’s saying. “Blue has a restless soul. Keeps himself busy.” She refills my coffee cup. “He and Hans will be gone most of the day, I expect.”