Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(81)

My eyes fluttered closed as Q secured my wrists in the leather cuffs. When the last buckle was tight, I whispered, “I have one request, if I may, master?”

Q pressed his face against my neck, licking the bite he’d given earlier. “One request and no more. Make it count.”

I trembled and opened the remaining barriers inside. This request was for me. Only for me. “I want you to call me Tess.”

He froze, cock hard against me, chest against my back. A minute ticked past before he murmured, “You want to link your name to this? But you fought so hard to keep it from me.”

I nodded, swallowing as he rocked his hips once, causing me to sway forward in the bindings. “I know. But I want you call me by my name. I want to know you own me.” My core clenched and I moaned as Q found my breast, twisting my nipple so hard it erupted into flames.

“As you wish, esclave. Every time I call you Tess, remember I can do anything I want to you. I f*cking own you.”

“Yes.”

“After tonight, every time I say your name you’ll get wet for me. I not only own your body but your identity, too. Do you deny it?”

“No, I don’t deny it. I’m yours. Through and through.”

With another twist of a nipple, Q strode toward the fireplace. I stood meekly in my cuffs, watching.

He didn’t load the fire with logs or fumble with matches. One click and gas flames roared, immediately searing.

Q faced me, running hands over his head. He shed the remaining tipsy haze, cloaking himself with sovereignty. Stalking forward, he pulled silver scissors from a pocket.

I gulped and didn’t say a word as he stopped a breath away. Snipping the scissors once with a tight smile, he grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and cut.

The blade tickled my stomach, up between my breasts, until the collar broke apart and it hung in tatters. Q clenched his jaw, cutting away my bra and shorts. With a hot look beneath heavy eyes, he snipped my knickers and watched as they fluttered to the floor.

I stood in naked glory, spreading wings of fearful happiness.

Gathering the ruined clothing, he threw them in the fire. The smell of burning filled the room and the drunken lust on Q’s face magnified to desperate proportions.

I couldn’t stop how fast I breathed, and hated when Q disappeared behind me. I heard the sounds of latches being undone and a heavy lid creaking open. Things tinkled and clanked sending imagination into overdrive. I strained to look over my shoulder, mouth hanging open by the toys and apparatus in the mirrored chest.

Silence descended, apart from the hiss of flames; I grew more and more uncomfortable. Anticipation played with my mind. What am I doing? I don’t want this. I don’t want pain and humiliation. I should say the safe word and admit this was a huge mistake. I shouldn’t be chained, naked, allowing a man to do anything he wanted. He could kill me and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

A slithering sound came from behind, and I tensed. I didn’t want to know what it was. Q paced behind, footsteps almost silent on the carpet. “Seeing as I’ve got you in such a compromising position. I’m going to use it to my benefit.” His voice was gravelly with sin.

Oh, God. I wanted to ask what he meant, but he stopped directly behind, a few metres away. Why was he so far?

“How long have you fantasised about being f*cked? Tortured? Used completely?” He stressed the word f*ck; it resonated with erotic waves in my belly. It had to be the most graphic, raw question anyone ever asked.

But it was also a question begging for a lie. I couldn’t tell him that ever since hitting puberty I craved something I didn’t know. I gave myself orgasms to thoughts of domination and fear. I pressed lips together, not answering.

Out of nowhere, my shoulder blade licked with the pain of a thousand bees. The snap and crack of a whip echoed around the room.

I cried out, jerking in the restraints.

He f*cking whipped me! The pain radiated along my back, warm, hot, biting. My stomach tangled with regret. I didn’t sign up to be hit and abused. I signed up to be f*cked ruthlessly. Tears erupted as another crack and kiss of agony landed. My spine screamed and the wetness between my legs increased.

“Answer me, Tess. How long? How badly? I need to know.”

I whimpered, hanging my head. “All along. My mind’s been sick for as long as I can remember. It horrifies me. I can’t control it. It ruined my relationship with a sweet man, all because I need to be f*cked, rather than made love to.” The truth cascaded off my tongue in one seamless stream. “I need it. So bad you have no idea.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I have some idea.” The whip struck again, licking with agony.

“Stop!” I cried, letting tears run free.

“Does the whip make you wet? Make you desperate?”

“Yes! Shit, yes. So much.”

Q laughed, it was dark and edgy, and so full of need, my heart twisted. He needed to inflict pain—I couldn’t take that from him.

The whip cracked again, but instead of tensing and bracing, I welcomed the lash. My body melted into acceptance and flesh became pliant.

“Tell me your darkest fantasy,” he ordered, pacing, the slither of the whip trailing soft footsteps.

I moaned, images flashed into my head of hair fisting, spanking, and bondage. He knew what I liked—he knew. But I didn’t know what he liked. I curled my bound hands. “Everything you do to me is a fantasy. I want to know yours. How dark do you want? How much further would you go?”