Chapter 18
His breath stuttered, sharp through his nose, but his eyes stayed locked on mine, wide and dazed like he couldn’t decide if he was about to come or beg me to pull the trigger.
I didn’t move it. Didn’t have to.
Instead, without breaking eye contact, I rolled on my back near him and lifted my legs straight up. Hooking my thumb under the waistband of my panties, I slid them all the way down—slow, deliberate, like a promise and a threat wrapped in silk.
Pierce’s gaze followed them for only a few seconds before snapping back to my face. A smirk threatened the corner of his blood-smeared mouth.
“You planning to shut me up with those?” he rasped, voice frayed and hoarse. “Can’t say I’d mind.”
I smiled, slow and cruel. “Not tonight,” I murmured. “That filthy mouth of yours still has plenty of work to do.”
His pupils blew wide, hunger flickering like a match strike in his eyes, but he stayed silent, bound and waiting.
With the gun still pressed to his head, I shifted back—slow and predatory, crawling up the length of his body. My knees dragged over his blood-warmed chest, brushing bruises and welts, every mark was mine, and I made sure he felt each one on the way up.
When I reached his face, I paused, hovering above him, the silk restraints pulling his arms taut against the headboard, his muscles flexing under his skin, eyes wide and feral.
“You still think this is about sex?” I asked, cocking my head and pushing the gun harder to his skull.
“No,” he rasped, throat raw. “This is about you.”
“Exactly.” And then I dropped.
I sat on his face like he was nothing more than a throne. My fucking throne.
He groaned beneath me, his entire body jerking with the weight of it, but he didn’t pull away. No hesitation. His mouth was on me in second—tongue slow and reverent at first, then hungrier, deeper, like he couldn’t breathe unless he tasted every drop of me.
I gripped the headboard with one hand, the other still holding the gun to his forehead. My thighs clenched around his face as he buried himself in me, licking like it was his last meal.
I rocked against him, using him, taking what I needed, letting every bit of rage and twisted hunger burn into the friction. Every flick of his tongue sent sparks shooting through me, every moan that vibrated against my clit made me wetter, hotter, until I was gasping for air.
Pierce moaned beneath me, muffled and desperate. His nose pressed firm against my clit, his tongue relentless, chasing every tremble in my hips. I could feel him pulling me apart from the inside out, like he wanted to drown in me.
And I let him.
The pleasure coiled tight in my stomach, violent and sweet, building and building until I was gasping, grinding, losing all sense of control as I came against his mouth with a cry that ripped through my chest like fire.
I didn’t move for a moment, just let the tremors settle. Let the tension bleed from my muscles. Let him breathe me in until I decided he’d had enough.
Then I slid off his face, slowly, one thigh dragging over his jaw. Pierce looked wrecked.
His lips were swollen, glistening. His cheeks flushed, eyes—glassy, dark, consumed—looked up at me like I’d drugged him. And maybe I had.
Pierce’s face was fully soaked, coated in my slick, and his tongue flicked over his lower lip as he caught his breath. He looked half-wild, half-worshipful.
I tilted my head, the gun still resting lightly against his head.
“You look disgusting,” I said, breathing hard. “Like I broke you.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, voice rough and breathless. “And I’ve never been so fucking grateful.”
“Look like you’d let me do it again.”
His smile was slow, filthy. “You could kill me between your pretty thighs and I’d still die happy.”
I tilted my head, feeling how warm and heavy the gun in my hand is. “That can be arranged.”
Sliding back down his body, I felt every shiver he gave under me. My thighs were slick with the aftermath of what he gave me, and his face was still glistening, lips red, chin drenched, cheeks flushed with effort and ecstasy.
He looked ruined and still hard. I reached down and unfastened his pants, watching the way his chest rose when I finally freed him.
His cock sprang up, thick, flushed, aching. He groaned when my fingers wrapped around it, teasing the head, dragging my thumb through the precum with slow, deliberate strokes. His hips jerked like he was fighting every instinct not to fuck up into my hand. But I wasn’t letting him off that easily. Oh no. I want to hear him beg.
“Say it, mate,” I whispered, hovering just over him. My breath is hot against his ear, while I trailing the gun by its tip from his temple down the cheekbone right under his jaw and slightly lifting it up. “Beg me.”
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding together as he tried to hold back, but I wasn’t having it. I leaned down to his chest and, after gently running my tongue over his hardened nipple, I bit it down just enough to make him gasp, making his body arching off the bed.
“Beg, Pierce.”
“Fuck, I want you,” he hissed. “I want to feel you ride me. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think. Please, Lyra. Please.”
God, hearing him say that—rasped, wrecked—made my whole body clench.
I smirked, my hand moving faster now, thumb pressing into the slit of his cock with every stroke, making him shudder.
“That’s it,” I whispered. “Tell me how bad you want it.”
“I need you,” he groaned, his hips bucking uncontrollably now. “I need to feel you around me. I need to be inside you. Fuck, Lyra, please.”
I could feel him trembling beneath me, his cock throbbing in my hand, and I knew he was close.
Releasing him and ignoring his frustrated growl, I climbed onto the bed straddling his hips. My free hand slid up his chest, nails leaving faint red trails in their wake, and I leaned down, my lips brushing against his.
“You’re going to earn it,” I whispered, her voice dripping with promise. “Every fucking inch.”
My hand found his cock again, guiding it to my entrance, and I sank down onto him slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside me.
The stretch made me cry out, head thrown back, fingers digging into his chest. He filled me completely—deep, thick, hot—and I didn’t wait. I started to ride him hard, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room like music.
He groaned beneath me, bound, breathless, every vein in his neck taut.
I pressed the barrel of the loaded gun against his forehead again and his head turned into it, like he craved the contact. “Fuck. You feel so fucking good.”
“You wanted this,” I gasped, bouncing harder, grinding deep. “You begged for this. So take it.”
“I am,” he panted, his face twisted with pleasure. “Goddess, Lyra, don’t stop— Don’t fucking stop—”
I didn’t. I moved faster, rougher, chasing the edge again. My legs were shaking, my body drenched in sweat, and I could feel him throbbing inside me, so close it was almost unbearable.
I leaned back, free hand now braced on his thigh, and picked up the pace, slamming down onto him with a force that made him cry out. My tits bounced with every movement, nipples hard and aching, and I could feel the heat building in my core, threatening to consume me.
“Fuck,” I whimpered, the orgasm crashing into me again like a wave. My vision blurred and my fingers clawed at the side of his muscular ass.
He came right after, with a desperate cry, hips jerking helplessly beneath me as he spilled deep, eyes rolling back. His whole body tensed beneath mine, every muscle drawn tight like a bowstring before it snapped.
I collapsed onto him, chest to chest, panting, the gun slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor. Everything went quiet for a moment—just the sound of breath and the blood still pounding in my ears.
Then I felt his arms around me. Hugging my body, firm and free.
I froze for several seconds.
He flipped me with a growl before I could react, slamming me onto my back, pinning my wrists above my head. His face hovered over mine—wild, sweat-slick, and smiling like a madman.
“Thought I’d let you have all the fun, little fox?” he growled, eyes burning. “Not. A fucking. Chance.”
