Page 20 of Breaking Rosalind

“Go fuck yourself,” I mutter around his cock.

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep. “Use your words.”

“I said?—”

His fingers tighten around my hair, making my breath catch. Then he flashes his teeth and growls, “I’m gonna fuck your throat.”

Before I know it, he’s thrusting into my mouth and down my windpipe. My eyes water, and I breathe hard, trying not to choke.

Part of my training as an assassin was getting rid of my gag reflex so I could stay focused when a target loses control. Staying alert, I increase the suction, ready to catch him when he falls.

Soon, his thrusts slow and become more erratic. When his fingers loosen their grip, I know he’s fallen under the drug’s influence.

Taking him deeper, I close my throat around his crown, and he climaxes with a guttural groan, flooding my mouth with salty fluid. His knees buckle and my hands shoot out to break his fall, and he collapses into my arms.

His cock slips from my lips, and I lay him on the floor, making sure he’s still breathing. Then I grab his wrists and drag him through the pool house’s lounge and into the playroom.

It’s time to change into something more suitable to infiltrate the mansion and search the grounds.

EIGHT

CESARE

Fuck. My. Head.

My cranial nerves throb in sync with my heartbeat, pain spreading down my spinal cord. Every drop of moisture has vacated my throat and mouth, leaving me parched. Even my kidneys ache with dehydration.

Did I get wasted last night?

No.

I’ve been clean for three years, with no access to anything stronger than alcohol, and almost never get drunk.

So why does it feel like I have the world’s worst hangover?

With a groan, I roll to the other side of the mattress, only to tumble onto the tile floor. Agony radiates across my back from the impact, making me wince.

“Since when do I sleep on the wrong side of the bed?” I mutter.

I inhale a deep breath, still too fucked up to consider shifting my carcass. Mingled within the scents of antiseptic and leather is something sweet and floral with a hint of citrus.

Is that magnolia?

Bitter memories rise to the surface, and I force them back to the recesses of my mind. It’s been fifty-eight months since she left, thirty-four since she died, and thirteen since I destroyed the estate’s magnolia trees.

No. This must be an olfactory hallucination brought on by a migraine... or a more ominous pathological process.

I clutch my head.

Stop this, Cesare.

You’re falling into a hypochondriacal spiral.

Despite the searing agony, I manage to crack open an eye, only for the morning light to sear my retina.

“What the fuck?”

I sit upright, blinking over and over to adjust my gaze. Eventually, my vision clears, and I find myself in the playroom.