Page 83 of Breaking Rosalind
“Alright.” I roll my eyes. “Remove these fucking splits off my hands and I’ll take good care of it.”
By it, I mean Cesare.
He shakes his head, his fingers sliding close to my opening and gathering my fluids. “You’re dripping, absolutely soaked. Even though you’re bitching about it, you love being my pet.”
I close my eyes, trying to shut out his nonsensical tirade. How do I explain to a man who doesn’t want to listen that my body went through years of this kind of training and found its own way to process pain? Cesare would probably interpret that as an invitation to play.
He runs the pad of his finger over my swollen clit, sending a jolt of pleasure that shatters my thoughts. My breath catches, and my thighs jerk within their restraints.
“I love how you’re so sexually responsive. My perfect little toy.”
“Cesare,” I say through clenched teeth. “You can’t keep me?—”
He pinches a nipple between his fingers, cutting off my words.
“You’re mine, little pet. Mine. I can do this all day long. Keep you on the edge until you break and spill your secrets. The sooner you realize this, the sooner I’ll allow you to come.”
Sweat breaks out across my skin. I need to kill Cesare before he destroys what’s left of my sanity.
THIRTY-TWO
CESARE
All the blood has rushed from my head and has gone straight to my cock. The sight of Rosalind sweating and squirming has me so hard that the edges of my vision are going black.
I didn’t sew her entire labia shut, only the labia minora. And I didn’t touch her clitoral hood. The stitches will dissolve after a week, leaving her perfectly intact. But she’ll think twice the next time she calls me a rapist.
Sliding my finger over her swollen clit, I flick my gaze to the monitors. They’re beside the bondage table in case I get carried away and allow her to climax.
Her resting BP is usually well below the average of 120/80, but now it’s reached 153/96, telling me she’s past the excitement phases of the human sexual response cycle and veering toward the end of the plateau phase.
Based on her heart rate of 145 beats per minute, she’s on the brink of orgasm. That, and the way her face contorts. She clenches her teeth and glares up at me with a mix of desperation and defiance.
The room temperature rises several degrees, matching the heat radiating from her delectable body. Tension crackles against my skin, electrifying and hot. Her need for release is palpable, like a vessel about to rupture.
I lean into her, my lips grazing her ear. “Whose pussy is this?”
“Mine.”
The alarm I programmed into the monitor shrieks. I withdraw my finger and smirk. “Wrong answer, pet.”
Rosalind shoots me a glower of such intense hatred that my balls draw up into my abdomen, and I nearly come in my pants.
“Gone limp already?” she asks through panting breaths.
I chuckle. “Reverse psychology won’t work this time, pet. I know all your tricks.”
Her eyes narrow, the fire in their hazel depths burning with malice. I release her nipple and step away from the table, giving her a moment to recover.
“What’s the point of all this?” she asks, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, making those perfect tits quiver. “You’re childish.”
I smirk at the insult, already accustomed to her brand of bullshit. Rosalind isn’t just a sexual masochist, she’s a master of psychological warfare. She uses words as weapons, but her tactics only work once. I’ve never met anyone who completely holds my interest. The alarm continues to ring, telling me she’s still dangerously close to climaxing. Any physical stimulation, even a slap, might push her over the edge.
My fingers twitch to touch her, but I curl my hands into fists.
“I hate you,” she snarls.
“That’s just stage one of Stockholm syndrome,” I say with an approving nod. “You’ll soon move into the next.”