Page 32 of Breaking Rosalind
The force of my movement jangles the buckle, and Cesare’s gaze travels to my right arm.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I rip my hand out of the leather restraint and swing at his face. He sidesteps, his laughter mocking.
“Clever little pet,” he says with a sneer. “I’m going to enjoy breaking your spirit.”
I tell him to go fuck himself, but I can’t even form words with my mouth forced open.
Cesare snatches my wrist and slams it against the chair’s wooden crosspiece, eliciting an explosion of pain. This time, when he buckles me back in, it’s tight enough to grind my wrist bones.
Shit.
He tightens the left restraint before wiping away the blood from the scalpel wound on my thigh and then covering it with a flesh-colored bandage.
The stupid gag won’t even let me grind my teeth, so I release my frustration in a scream.
“Blink once for yes and two for no.” He brandishes the revolver. “Is that understood?”
I blink twice.
“Good girl.”
“Asshole,” I say, the words garbled.
“I’m going to enjoy this, too.” He picks up a bullet and smirks.
My breath comes in shallow gasps as I’m forced to watch him slide the bullet into the chamber before spinning it with an audible click.
I can do this.
I can survive this psychopath.
There’s a one in six chance that the gun will fire. That’s almost seventeen percent. Lower, considering I plan on answering every single question with something plausible.
My throat tightens. How ironic that he plans to kill me by shooting into the organ that produced the only worthwhile thing in my life. I picture Miranda as a newborn, my heart squeezing. Whatever happens, I need to survive… For her.
Cesare kneels between my spread thighs and stares at my pussy. “You’ve gotten even wetter.”
I blink twice, trying to deny my arousal, but when he brushes the cool metal over my clit, every nerve ending across my back and inner thighs tingles, and I shiver.
“Liar,” he says, his voice thickening with arousal. “You love the danger.”
He slides the barrel up and down my folds, making an obscene wet sound. I shake my head, my breath coming in heavy pants.
Cesare chuckles. “You were made for pain.”
When he positions the gun at my entrance, I squeeze my eyes shut, and when he pushes the barrel into my passage, I moan.
His breathing quickens, synchronizing with mine as he fucks me with the twelve-inch barrel. I clamp around the cold metal, my insides quivering.
This is sick, this is twisted. I should be working on breaking free, but Cesare has fastened the restraints so tightly that all I can do now is play along until I find another opening.
I buck my hips and give in to the sensations as he presses the pad of his thumb on my swollen clit. Pleasure builds and builds until all sense of survival gives way to the urge to climax. Just as the ecstasy sharpens, he shoves the barrel against my cervix.
“Are you an assassin, yes or no?”
I blink once for yes.