the couch, was it?
His lower stomach muscles contract and release as he works himself in and out of me, holding me captive with his hand on my throat, my heart metaphorically trapped inside an iron grip. All he has to do is squeeze a bit harder and I'll bleed forever.
“Oscar,” I manage to choke out, his thumb sliding up the side of my neck, stroking me back to silence. My eyes are half-lidded, my nipples peaked to diamond points, my skin speckled with sweat. I rock my hips up and forward, meeting one of Oscar's thrusts.
Like a fragile piece of glass, he shatters and starts to move faster, fucking me into the mattress with a greedy frenzy that says that maybe he isn't human. He is, however, a goddamn beast. My lips part and my head tilts back in his pillows, my pelvis working to meet his, our bodies slamming together hard and fast and wild. There's so much wetness between them; the movements are nice and slick.
I still can't talk, and his hand is still wrapped around my throat when he comes, doubling over with a guttural groan and several hard thrusts that I lift my hips to meet. He spills himself inside of me, body bent over, dark hair hanging over his sweaty forehead. He takes several minutes to catch his breath and then pulls out of me.
As soon as he releases my throat, I suck in two beautiful lungfuls of oxygen, panting to catch my breath and slow my pulse.
That's when I notice that he's gathering his shirt from the floor and putting it back on.
“What are you doing?” I ask, terrified that he's panicking on me again. I try to sit up, but it's hard as shit on that soft-ass bed with my arms bound behind my back. “You can't leave me again, Oscar.”
“I need to deal with Coraleigh before I deal with …” He gestures at me with his tattooed hand before reaching up to adjust his tie. “Whatever this is. Be a good girl and wait here for me?” Oscar fixes his pants and then heads for his bedroom door, pausing to glance back at me. “If Rebecca comes knocking, tell her I'm in the bathroom; she doesn't need to know that I ever left.”
He opens the door as I scream his name.
“Don't you fucking dare, Oscar Montauk!” I shout, but it's too late. He steps outside and closes the door behind him. I hear the very distinct sound of a key being applied to the lock. The deadbolt slides into place, and I let out a frustrated scream.
This is not happening again.
I'm going to fucking murder him in his sleep.
What a piece of shit.
What a royal motherfucking, cocksucking nightmare of a man.
I kick at his footboard with both feet before rolling onto my belly and struggling to sit up. My stomach muscles are screaming by the time I get into a sitting position, both of my feet firmly on the floor. My fingers feel for the rope, but Oscar really is a master of ropes. When I stand up and use his full-length mirror to peek at my back, I see an intricately woven pattern of pink silk ropes, like a sculpture made of rope and skin.
My breath catches, but then I remember that the asshole just left me sans orgasm and tied up in his bedroom. There must be a trick to all this, because he wouldn't leave me vulnerable like this. If someone from the Charter Crew were to show up …
I sit back down on the bed and then fall into the pillows, staring up at the popcorn ceiling above my head. My entire body feels electrified and alive, desperate for touch. I end up closing my eyes and imagining that Oscar comes back, that he strips down and climbs above me. Rubbing my thighs together, I work up a sweet friction that has my body throbbing and pulsing with pleasure.
Biting my lower lip, I squeeze and rub my legs until I feel the very edges of an orgasm teasing me. It's not enough though, no matter how hard I try, and I kick the footboard in frustration again. After a while, I end up falling asleep.
When I wake up, my arms are untied and Callum is lying on his side and staring at me, hood pulled up, hands in a prayer position beneath his cheek.
“Hey there sleepyhead,” he murmurs in his husky voice. “How are you feeling?”
I sit up,