Page 103 of Breaking Rosalind

I clench my eyes shut. “Yes.”

He reaches between our bodies and rubs my clit with firm strokes. My hips buck, and I tremble under his touch.

“Forget about him. You’re with me now,” he growls.

The heat from the water and the steam have me dizzy and disoriented, but not nearly so delirious as to agree to his ownership. I shake my head, focusing only on the sensations.

“These are my tits.” He releases my neck only to pinch my nipple, triggering a burst of pain.

Shivering against the onslaught, I part my thighs. His fingers quicken their pace on my throbbing clit, eliciting desperate moans.

“If you stop, I swear on everything that’s holy that I’ll bite a chunk out of your face,” I growl.

“I won’t,” he says, his thick cock pressing against my belly.

“Free my hands,” I say, my voice urgent. “We can do this together.”

His laughter echoes off the bathroom walls. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Bastard.” I yank at my restraints, making the metal clank.

“Such a foul-mouthed little toy,” he growls into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You need to learn to respect your master.”

“You’re deluded.”

“I control your pleasure,” he snarls and punctuates the statement with a squeeze. “I control your pain. I control whether you eat or sleep or shit. That’s the very definition of a master. Now, beg for that orgasm.”

When he eases off the pressure, I lose my instinct to rebel.

“Please,” I say, my voice breaking. “Let me come, please.”

He resumes his touch, only faster and with more pressure. The sensations overwhelm my system, and the entire bathroom fades away. My breath hitches, and my body arches toward release.

With my eyes closed, I can pretend that the man dominating me is someone other than Cesare Montesano. He’d be tall, dark-haired, and muscular, with tattoos and a devilish grin. And exactly my age, if not younger.

Shit.

Did I just describe the asshole breathing down my neck?

“Such an eager little pet,” he growls, his hips rolling, his erection grinding against my belly. “Come for me. I want to hear your pleasure.”

My body keeps teetering over the precipice but never falls, as though its new default state to pleasure is being edged. I move my hips against his fingers, trying to increase the friction, but it’s impossible.

So, this is what they call a ruined orgasm.

“Come on,” he says, his voice deep and seductive. “Let go. Let yourself fall.”

“I can’t,” I say through clenched teeth. “That stupid chastity belt?—”

“Come for your master.” He pinches my nipple hard. “Now.”

Every orgasm he denied me hits like a thunderstorm, striking me with bolts of lightning. My body convulses and jerks under the onslaught, my muscles spasming with each charge of electricity.

The weight of all the pleasure makes my knees buckle, and I drop toward the floor, but Cesare wraps an arm round about my waist, and holds me to his chest.

He strokes my clit throughout the climax, prolonging its intensity, until it feels like I’m being consumed. I cry out, unable to hold back.

“Good girl,” he croons. “See how you’re coming at my command? Your brain is releasing floods of oxytocin, that will create an unbreakable bond.”