God of Pain (Legacy of Gods #2) by Rina Kent

My breast slips from the built-in bra and the dress pools on the floor and I remain in nothing more than my panties.

Absolutely soaked panties.

How could a few spanks and the change of his tone be enough to turn me into this mess?

Creighton pushes off me, and my skin tingles where his hands touched me.

“Lie down on the bed.”

His authoritative tone leaves no room for negotiation, and I stumble in the direction of the bed and then lie on the messy sheets.

They smell like him, all male and addictive. It takes everything in me not to hug his pillow to my chest or something.

Creighton reaches into his closet and I strain to see what he’s up to.

He reappears again with a black leather bag. Usually, I would comment on its fashion and quality, but I don’t get the chance to before he starts to retrieve ropes from it.

His low, rich, and absolutely collected voice rings through the room, then strikes my skin. “I planned to get you more immersed in pain, to train and discipline you better before bringing you to this point, but you had to go and provoke me, little purple.”

Ropes.

Ropes.

More ropes.

I swallow the lump that’s gathered in my throat, but it only grows in size.

Creighton drops the bag on the bed and climbs up. The mattress dips with his weight as he straddles my middle with his knees on either side and grabs both my wrists with one hand and shoves them above my head.

His jeans create a heated friction against my naked flesh, causing goosebumps to erupt and multiply at a scary speed.

“Creigh…”

“Shh.” He wraps the rope around one wrist and secures it to the metal headboard and then does the same to the other.

I try to pull my hands, but the knots he’s made get tighter with every attempt. Shit. He’s an expert at this, isn’t he?

Creighton pushes off me, appearing way bigger than I remember him as he stands opposite me.

I lift my head, watching him grab an ankle and tie it to the foot of the bed. Then he repeats the move with my other foot so that I’m completely stretched out on the mattress and only my panties offer any sort of barrier.

And I need that right now.

While he was tying me up, I was kind of hyperventilating. And although I enjoyed the foreplay of punishment and pleasure, this situation is different.

I’m completely at his mercy, where I wouldn’t be able to escape even if I wanted to.

I’m trapped by a cold-blooded, ruthless monster who wants a pound of my flesh.

Literally.

Figuratively.

Creighton rummages in his bag that’s on the floor and reemerges with a blindfold.

I shake my head frantically.

Yes, I’m agitated, but I would rather see what he has in store for me, even if it’s too much to handle.

He lifts my jaw with two fingers, then skims his thumb over my parted lips. “You’ll be my pretty little doll tonight, Annika. I’ll use your pale flesh as my canvas and mold you into my plaything until you’re all stuffed with my cock, sobbing and screaming my name. The only thing you'll have to stop me is that one word.”

And then he straps the blindfold over my eyes, turning my world black.

My mind races the moment my vision is confiscated.

He’s right. I have that word and I can stop this.

I can.

But for some reason, I don’t want to. At least, not now.

So I breathe slowly, like whenever he had me on his lap or on a table. In a way, this isn’t any different. I’m just tied to the bed.

Besides, it’s not like he allowed me to move before, even if I wasn’t bound.

This is exactly the same situation in a different setting.

Or I’m just deluding myself.

My senses heighten due to my loss of sight. My ears home in on the slightest sound, my nose gets permeated with Creighton’s scent, and my skin becomes so sensitive that I can barely handle the soft sheets.

A sound comes from off to the side and I figure out he’s rummaging through his bag of terror again.

Anticipation and thrill mix together, warring inside me until I think I’ll throw up.

My breath catches when the noise stops and I feel him hovering over me, watching me silently, expectantly.

Then something cold touches my stomach and slides down to the waist of my panties.

“C-Creighton?”

“I love it when you call my name in that scared little voice. It turns me on.”

A whole-body shiver slashes through me because I have no doubt that my fear is his catalyst and that he gets off on it and my pain.

Still sliding the cold—now warmer—thing over my stomach, he bunches my panties with his fist, pulling them against my clit.

My body arches off the bed as inexplicable pleasure washes through me. How could the helplessness and the darkness turn me on this much?

I’m so sensitive that a mere rub of my clothes is enough to send me into overstimulation.

A slitting sound brings me out of my reverie.

Air hits my core as my panties are removed. And then something plastic is placed at my mouth.

“Suck.”

I part my lips at his command and wrap them around what feels like a ball.

“Good girl.”

My movements become more enthusiastic at his praise, and I suck and lick as if it were his cock.

Too soon, Creighton pulls out whatever he put in my mouth and runs it down my clit, between my folds. He teases, rubbing and sliding it through my wetness until I’m writhing.