The Isle Of Sin And Shadows - Keri Lake Page 0,125
too-sensitive nipple.
My fucking traitorous body damn near invites him to keep on.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? So good, I bet you’d come from this alone.”
“Not even close,” I say, and swallow the gulp of lies.
His dark chuckle only stokes my humiliation. “I know better than that. Unfortunately for you, though, I’m not known for going easy on my prey.”
One flick of his fingers loosens the clasp, spilling my breast into his rough palm. One flick of his thumb, and he releases it, holding up the knife, instead. “Tell me, what’s your threshold for pain?”
The tip of cold steel touches my chest, and I writhe as he runs the blade, feather light, across my skin. Only a faint scratch that trails over the swell of my breast, and when he reaches my nipple, a tickle sends a rush straight to my core. I exhale a shuddered breath, burying my face into my arm, and curl my fingers over the leather belt holding me down.
You can trust me. They don’t understand you like I do, baby. Relax.
“Tell me who is in that picture, chère.” In spite of his unsettling composure, much calmer than before, there’s still a hard and unyielding edge to his tone. A sort of aloof charm with a sinister undercurrent. While my head pulls me into unwanted memories, Thierry keeps drawing me into reality.
“No,” I breathe, trying to ignore the tingles prickling beneath my skin, while he toys with my breast.
To my relief, he draws the tip of the knife down further, and at the tearing sound, I dare a downward glance to see him cutting through my tank. Slicing it down the middle to expose my stomach.
Oh, God. I try to imagine what a blade to the gut might feel like. I don’t even remember how the one to my jaw felt.
“Did you know the woman in that photo?” The cold steel dances over my navel, while he scores a gentle path toward the button of my shorts. “Tell me.”
“No.” At the jostling from below, I blink a tear that streams down my temple. My shorts slide down, stretching tight over my splayed thighs. Cool summer air breezes across my naked flesh, while the fabric digs into my skin.
A cold, blunt edge is the hilt of the knife that he drags over my exposed seam. “Please. Thierry.”
“Tell me what I want to know, and this ends now.” Up and down, in delicate strokes, he runs the blade’s smooth hilt. Something churns inside my belly, but it isn’t sickness. A flutter of something depraved and exhilarating shoots to my core, and my thighs twitch, as he drags the hilt downward, circling it at my entrance.
The slick glide of the blade is the silent, mortifying confession of my body’s ongoing betrayal.
“So wet.” The deep timbre of his voice at my ear has me tucking my face further into my arm. “Are you enjoying this torture?”
“Fuck you.” The confusing truth is, I like the distraction. The way his ministrations somehow quell the panic inside of me, twisting my fear into something I don’t recognize. Something I want, which, in itself, feels ironically unshackling.
Powerful.
With every brush of the blade, I’m drawn further away from the black hole waiting to suck me in, and closer to the reality of here and now.
He draws the hilt back up my seam and presses two fingers to my fleshy lips, widening the cleft, exposing me to the night. “Tell me to stop, chaton, and I will.” The remorseful tone of his voice is almost a plea. The words of a man divided by his conscience.
I can’t. Oh, God, I can’t, and I must be sick for this. So fucked in the head that he might as well finish me off.
Pressure at my entrance marks the bulb of the hilt threatening to breach. Tiny pulses begging for it to push inside.
“Tell me where you got the picture, Céleste. I need to know.”
A sound of agony escapes me, and I arch my back, breasts jutting out. A part of me wants to laugh at the dynamic. My captor losing that hard edge of his as he attempts to torment me, while I hold all of the control through my enjoyment of it.
It’s the most exhilarating sensation I’ve felt in my life, and I lose myself to it, circling my hips in taunting, which only sends a new rush of arousal that makes for a slicker glide.
“Fuck,” I hear him mutter, and I open my eyes to find something else