Page 82 of Breaking Rosalind
A flush rises to my cheeks, and prickly heat spreads down my neck and over my chest. I squirm within my restraints under the weight of his stare.
“As if you’re not rock hard,” I snap, trying to pass on a measure of my shame.
“I am, pet, but that’s because I have you completely at my mercy.”
“You’re sick.”
“That’s an understatement.”
My stomach lurches, and a bout of fear rushes between my spread legs. I grind my teeth, wishing my body had a more appropriate response to a dangerous situation with a man I despise.
“All this toying with me is so unnecessary,” I say through clenched teeth. “Don’t you have a drug empire to run?”
“Sure, but first, I have a pussy I need to spank.”
The slap hits with a resounding sting that has me arching my back and cursing my stupid mistake. I should have found another way to infiltrate the Montesano stronghold instead of having a one-night stand with this lunatic.
He slips on a pair of disposable gloves, tears open an antiseptic wipe and swipes my pussy with it, cooling my heated flesh. I’m panting, trembling, curling my toes at the intense cold.
“What is this?” I rasp. “Temperature play?”
“Not yet.”
He opens another wipe and concentrates his efforts on my labia. The muscles of my pussy clench with need, wanting him to stop teasing and fill me with one of his fingers.
Just as I’m about to say something disparaging, he sets down the wipe and pulls on my inner lip. My mouth clamps shut, and I fall silent.
“Such a pretty little pussy,” he says, his voice a reverent whisper, each syllable breathy with admiration. “And it’s all mine.”
I try to raise my head, but the band over my brow keeps me firmly in place. “Not yours,” I say through panting breaths. “It’s?—”
A sharp pain lances through my labia as he pierces the delicate skin. My brain is so scrambled that the sensation registers as pleasure, and I let out a strangled cry.
Sparks of ecstasy travel through every nerve in my body like strings of dynamite, making my muscles stiffen, and my back arch even higher. I’m about to inhale when he pierces the other labia and makes me howl.
“Good girl,” he croons. “You’re taking your stitches so well.”
“What the fuck?” I scream in a strange mix of anger and arousal.
“Almost done,” he says and pierces me again with the needle.
I collapse against the leather table, my legs trembling as I work through a deluge of sensations. Pain. Pleasure. Panic. The needle moves in and out of my tender flesh, repeating the motion until my mind finally pieces together a mental image.
“Did you...” My throat spasms. “Did you just stitch up my labia?”
“You said you don’t consent to sex.”
He stands back and admires his handiwork with a fond grin, and another emotion slides into place.
Outrage.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“I sewed your pussy shut. No one will ever fuck you without your consent. Not even me.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for being a gentleman?” I screech. “Because a decent human being would set me free, not resort to female genital mutilation.”
With a non-committal hum, he inspects the stitches. “Clean it every day with a saline solution,” he says with the air of a medic delivering a prescription. “Avoid aggravating the area while it’s healing.”