I can smell you.
Something he said to me so long ago, when he told me to run and hide in Parsons Manor, promising a punishment if he found me.
I have a feeling he can smell me now, and just how much my body weeps for him.
“Lift your leg, baby,” he orders roughly, voice hoarse with desire. I listen, watching him loop the lacy strap around my foot and raise it to my upper thigh, his knuckles coming dangerously close to my center.
“Do you remember how to use this?” he asks, flipping the blade in his deft fingers. For the life of me, I can’t fathom why that was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen him do.
“Uh-huh,” I squeak. It takes effort to drag my eyes away from the twirling blade to meet his gaze. There’s a hint of challenge swirling in his mismatched pools, and I feel myself rising to meet it. “Do you know how to use it?”
I’ll never know why I instigate him, even when wariness lingers behind the cloud of lust.
The smirk that curls his lips is wicked, causing my body to flush. I’m overheating, and he’s hardly touched me.
I’m not sure what he intends to do, but that look on his face tells me it’s going to be something nefarious.
“You can’t cut me with it,” I say seriously. For a moment, I see a flash of rage in his eyes, gone before the fire can spread. And I know he knows the reasoning behind my request. There have been several nights where I confessed the things that had been done to me in that house, including Xavier’s kink with slicing me open while he raped me.
For a moment, I panic, fearing he’ll stop at the reminder that other men have used my body. Tensing, I wait for the disgust. I wouldn’t blame him if he was repulsed by me, but it’d tear my heart out anyway.
Instead, he flips the blade until he’s gripping the sharp edge in his hand. Then he slides the handle against my thigh, gentle and teasing. The fear begins to dissipate, relief soaking my bones. But even that quickly fades when the handle caresses my pussy, just a whisper of a touch.
Now, I feel nothing but anticipation and that lingering wariness.
Turbulence rocks the plane again, a physical representation of how my heart feels.
“Did you know that reclaiming something that was stolen from you can help with trauma?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“And if something hurt you before, giving it a new meaning can help.”
His eyes lift, focusing on me intently.
“Do you want me to show you a new meaning to this knife?”
I hesitate but then nod my head. A different kind of fear is seizing my body-the kind that I’ve always been attracted to. And I’ve missed it so much.
“Pull up your dress,” he demands roughly, his voice deep and raspy. Quickly, I do as he says, bunching the material up just high enough to bare the apex of my thighs.
His nostrils flare, and he clenches his jaw briefly before ordering, “Now wrap your hand around mine.”
Furrowing my brows, I do as he says, grabbing ahold of his hand that’s curled tightly around the blade. “Wouldn’t want to cut up those pretty hands of yours. So, you’re going to guide me.”
I shake my head, feeling myself start to retreat.
“I won’t touch you,” he promises. “You’re in control, little mouse. I’m only here to protect your hand. Instead of allowing this knife to cause you pain, use it to give yourself pleasure instead.”
My throat constricts, and I have the strongest urge to run away. But that feeling is what keeps me still. I don’t want Xavier to win. To haunt my life so terribly that an inanimate object has the power to control me.
Nodding my head, I guide his hand up, my breath hitching when the handle slides along my slit.
Zade watches my movements closely, his teeth clenched and the muscle in his jaw pulsating. Blood begins to trickle down his wrist, and for reasons I can’t explain, I squeeze his hand tighter, eliciting more trails of blood. He growls deep in his chest but doesn’t stop me.
I bite my lip, a whimper breaking free when I slowly insert it inside of me, my legs trembling.
Normally, I don’t think I could ever get enjoyment out of fucking myself with a knife handle. But using Zade’s hand to do it adds a layer of pleasure I wouldn’t be able to find on my own. Seeing his blood drip from our hands instead of my own-it does something to me that I can’t explain.
My breath escalates when I slide the handle inside me to the hilt, Zade’s fingers pressed up against my flesh. A groan rumbles deep in his chest, but he keeps his promise, his hand not even twitching against me.
“Tell me how it feels,” he rasps, enthralled by the sight of me tugging our hands down just to drive it back up, eliciting a sharp jolt of bliss.
“S-so good,” I breathe around a moan, my eyes fluttering as I continue, finding a pace that threatens to make me forget my own name.
“Go slower,” he urges, his hand flexing beneath mine. I force myself to listen, keeping the pace gradual and drawing out the pleasure.
“Now watch yourself. Look how pretty you are when you fuck yourself.”
Mouth parted and chest heaving, I look down between my slick thighs, the euphoria heightening from the sight.
“See how you’re dripping all over our hands, baby?”
Both of our hands are covered in his blood, my arousal mixing in and carving paths through the crimson staining our skin.
My stomach tightens, an orgasm building low in my stomach.
“Yes,” I moan.
“You know what I see? I can see how tightly your pussy is clenching the knife,” he growls, face strained with need. “Like it’s just begging to be filled.”
“Do you wish it was your cock instead?” I pant, enjoying the way his eyes flare. Absolutely loving that he can only dream of fucking me, forced to watch a knife handle do it instead. A rush of power flows through me, and I can’t contain the smile.
His eyes lift to mine, something dangerous whirling in his irises. My stomach clenches, the orgasm cresting higher. But I don’t fear him. I pity him.
“Does it hurt knowing that you can’t touch me?” I ask, another moan slipping free when I hit that spot inside me. “Does it cut deeper than this knife?”
“Yes,” he confesses, his tone low and dark.
“You can’t have it,” I taunt. He eyes me closely, understanding what I’m doing and not liking it. Yet, he’ll never disobey me, knowing that the trust I’ve placed on him will be shattered.
Giving respect hurts like a bitch when your hands are tied.
I drive the knife deeper and faster, reaching that peak, and I decide that giving him a small taste will deepen the agony.
All I need is a little nudge, but this time, I’m not the one that will be begging him to let me come.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.