Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
And then he would make her come some more. Until it was her cunt he felt, not Lucia’s. Until the bond swallowed the difference, and the pleasure belonged to them alone.
Mounting cramps, deep discomfort coiling tighter around empty pleasure, Brenya trapped in a grotesque simulation of sex while Jacques forcefully flooded her with him. And still, Jules held out his hand.
Casting long shadows across the Red Room, the setting sun’s amber light bathed her in an orange glow. Caught on the curve of her breast beneath Jules’s borrowed black shirt. Lit the side of her tan throat in gold.
The same gold as her tormented eyes.
Still coming. Her insides compressed, muscles grinding delicate tissues against one another, driven to over-tighten in their desperation for seed, as there was no knot to milk. Twisting atop that puddling slick, the seat beneath her thighs and seizing cunt slimy with it, fat drops slipped off the chair’s edge to dribble down in threads to the floor.
“Come to me, mon chou.”
That voice—Jacques’s voice—wasn’t memory. It inhabited the air, slid down her spine, coiling against her clit as if his tongue lapped her juices.
“No!” she sobbed, jolting hard. Folding forward, she gripped the chair like it might anchor her.
A moan rose, trapped behind grinding teeth, as she fought with everything not to heed his call or feel his pleasure.
And failed.
A hissing, wet suck of air. Her breath snagged, morphed into a strained, reedy wail as blinding, painful orgasm peaked. Legs trembled, cunt manically wrenching around nothing.
No reprieve. No ebb. Just endless throbbing need.
Adrenaline shivers left her teeth chattering, another wave of climax already building too quickly for her to brace. The mind knew it wasn’t real, but her body did not understand what was taking place. Cunt tightened in confusion, grasping for a knot that wasn’t there and wouldn’t come without an Alpha to fuck her.
No stretch to soothe the muscles. No fullness to trigger her relief. No cum flooding inside her where it was needed. Just empty friction and sick dread.
She seized again under Jules’s unblinking gaze. Stuck, trembling, beautiful.
Bernard Dome’s museum boasted an exhibit of colorful, rare insects pinned to velvet. Beetles and butterflies that had not been invited into her Dome’s curated ecosystem. Delicate, pretty things.
And in that moment of ecstatic pain, that’s what she became. Twitching. On display. An invisible needle lanced through her center, pinning her to the sopping chair, even as she wanted to drag her body into a dark corner to hide.
She could taste Jacques in the back of her throat… hear the grunts and moans, the frustrated snarls and the passionate cries.
Worst of all… under the horror, Brenya felt wronged by Jacques’s use of another woman.
Betrayed.
The cum he pumped into Lucia was hers… Brenya needed it with a desperation that outstripped any craving she’d ever felt—even for Beta rations in her deepest moments of withdrawal.
And Jacques knew…
The Alpha knew every slippery, unfocused spasm in her mind. Including how frightened, how humiliated, she was.
“I’ll help you, Brenya. Find me. Come now.”
It was her nightmare all over again, and now he could do these things to her… and he was not even in the room.
“I won’t!” Bloodless fingers pried away from the chair’s edge with effort. Stiff, aching, curled from how hard she’d clung to her soaked seat. On panicked instinct, Brenya shoved at the table. Her chair scraping back, wooden legs sliding through the mess of slick pooling beneath her. Dishes clattered. Her sweating glass of water toppled. She collapsed forward, elbows locking, fingers clawing at the edge of the table as if it could hold her upright. Spine coiled tight, a cramp pulled her into a sick, folded arch.
She was trying. Gods, she was trying. Every spasm, every gasp, every weak shove of her hands said no—but it wasn’t enough. Not against an insidious pair-bond wielded by a man hellbent on enmeshing himself into her very soul.
The harder she resisted, the more fiercely Jacques rebelled, his influence escalating into an unbearable onslaught until, panting, she looked up at Jules, his hand still extended, unchanged, as if he’d known it would come to this.
Her voice cracked, low and broken. “Please… make it stop.”
With a single touch, Jules Havel granted her wish.
By reaching forward and closing his hand around her throat.
Gently forcing her spasming body to uncurl, articulating each vertebra against the solid back of her chair. Applying just enough pressure to assure he had her complete, undivided attention, even if another had her cramping womb.
Those unflinching blue eyes sparked with life, strange in their intensity, as the Beta made damn sure she recognized his control, and her lack. His solid, real form. Right there. Not a phantom poking within her guts or playing tricks on her mind.
With measured slowness, he stroked a thumb along her jawline, his intentional, inviting, tempered pitch perfection, as he purred, “Eyes on me, Brenya. Feel me.”