Page 141 of Breaking Rosalind
My climax builds. My grip tightens on her hips as I thrust deeper into her tight heat. I’m so close to coming, but I don’t want to leave my pet unsatisfied. I rub her clit with firmer strokes, making her moan.
“Fuck,” she cries out, her muscles squeezing my shaft so hard that my eyes roll to the back of my head.
With one final powerful thrust, I come deep in her ass, my body trembling from the intensity. My hips jerk, and jets of cum escape my balls, sending lightning bolts of pleasure through my senses as she collapses against my chest.
My world sharpens with perfect clarity. Rosalind is my perfect pet, and I want no other woman but her. I will use every underhanded method at my disposal to make her mine.
FIFTY-FIVE
ROSALIND
Hours later, I teeter down the marble hallway in a hobble skirt and six-inch heels connected by chains. Even if I wanted to break free from Cesare, I wouldn’t get very far because the sick bastard has dressed me up as BDSM barbie.
Of all the humiliating shit I’ve endured as an assassin, this is possibly the most aggravating, because we’re on our way to a family dinner with his brothers and their dates.
Staff side-eye us as we pass them, and nobody comments on my attire. I don’t usually give a shit about what others think, but can’t one of them at least show a smidgen of concern or even surprise? I’m being held against my will as Cesare’s torture slave.
He leans into my side, presses a kiss on my cheek, murmuring in my ear, “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.”
“Get fucked,” I mutter.
“Are you giving me consent to fill your other holes?” he asks, sounding so earnest that I want to gouge out his eye with my stiletto. “Because I can remove the stitches.”
“No...” I say through clenched teeth. “Psycho.”
When we enter the dining room, the first thing I notice is a replica of The Last Supper, but with everyone dressed like extras from The Godfather. My jaw would drop, but a curly-haired woman in denim is too busy gaping at my appearance.
I recognize her from the pool house. She walked in when Cesare had me tied to that chair. That was a lifetime ago, when the only threat I had hanging over Miranda’s head came from the Moirai.
The woman’s wide green eyes scan my boned bodice with sheer fabric that probably exposes my nipples under the light of the chandeliers. Jaw dropping, she turns to Roman Montesano as though urging him to say something, but the eldest brother only scowls.
Benito sits beneath the painting between Gil and his blonde date and an empty space. He raises his head from the screen of his phone, mutters something I can’t hear through the blood roaring in my ears, then turns his attention back to his device.
Cesare jostles me into the chair beside the curly-haired woman before taking his seat. The backcombed-blonde sitting opposite who’s dressed in a 1980s style dress shoots me a withering glare. I meet her gaze. What’s her excuse for dressing like an outdated prom queen?
“Look around,” Cesare murmurs into my ear. “You’re the most alluring woman in the room and you’re all mine.”
I stiffen, trying to pretend he doesn’t exist, but the toy he placed in my pussy roars to life. Cesare announces to the entire table that this is my last supper, which is bullshit because he’s having too much fun making me squirm. I tune out the rest of the conversation, trying my hardest not to react. This entire charade is a power play he set up to demonstrate that I’m completely under his control.
The housekeeper slides into the seat opposite mine, presumably as Benito’s date. She gives me a pained grimace, seeming to be the only person in the room who both understands my predicament and vaguely gives a shit. That, or she disapproves of Cesare bringing a hostage to the dinner table.
The curly-haired woman looks perpetually confused. It doesn’t help that Roman keeps whispering words of reassurance, and the asshole sitting beside me won’t stop stroking my neck.
Delicious scents waft from pasta that’s shaped like large grains of rice. Cesare eats like it’s his last meal, but I stare at my plate.
Cesare leans into me and whispers. “I freed your hands for a purpose, pet. Don’t put this good food to waste.”
My nostrils flare. I have to remind myself that breaking my fast with heavy food won’t just upset my stomach. It will reset the hunger response and put me further under Cesare’s thumb.
The toy in my pussy vibrates with more intensity, and I stifle a moan. Biting down on my bottom lip, I force back my arousal, and my eyes roll to the back of my head. Cesare slips a hand on my thigh. “Come on, pet. Let them hear your pleasure.”
I’m on the verge of climaxing when a hand slams on the table, making me flinch. Apparently, the blonde threw an insult at Roman’s date, and now she’s being asked to leave. Her lips tremble, making my own curl.
Can’t she see Roman did her a favor? I would give anything to rise off this seat and walk away without consequences. As if reading my mind, Cesare snakes his arm around my waist and brushes his thumb back and forth against the thin fabric over my skin.
The vibrations speed up. Shivers skitter up and down my spine and settle deep inside my core. Clenching my teeth, I curl my fingers into fists. I do not have a humiliation kink. No toy could ever make me come against my will. But the sensory deprivation has gotten me so touch-starved that Cesare’s fingers feel like electricity.
As the blonde takes an eternity to leave her seat, Cesare leans into me, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.