Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(80)

Yep.

Oscar Montauk is like drowning.

I take my boots and socks off, not bothering to hurry. There is no rushing this. My eyes lift up to find Oscar's, but he hasn't moved; his expression hasn't changed. He's stoic and quiet and dark as the night sky without stars.

Unbuttoning my leather pants (a different pair since Vic ruined my favorite), I slip them down my hips and reveal the fact that I was never wearing panties at all. Underwear lines and all that.

Now that I'm nude, I feel completely vulnerable in front of this man, the same way I did on Aaron's couch that night. The way Oscar's staring at me doesn't change, but I get the impression that he's close to breaking and revealing something important to me.

I climb onto the bed and turn around, perching on my knees.

“Hands behind your back,” he tells me, his words stitched with darkness and lust and endless, rolling desire. “Wrists together.”

Holy shit.

As much as I know I can trust the boys, this is a whole new level. Sex has been leveled at me as a weapon my entire life. My sister died because of sex. Sometimes it's hard to separate the hatred I have for my perpetrators and my feelings about the act itself. Letting Oscar tie me up puts this on a whole new level; it leaves me nearly helpless and trapped in his bedroom.

With a long exhale, I do as he's asked.

Oscar's long fingers tickle my skin in a pleasant way as he applies the rope, twisting and weaving it around my arms with just enough pressure that I find it comforting, like he's holding me in his arms. My body begins to shake as he puts his mouth up against my ear.

“Do you know what shibari is?” he asks me, nipping the shell of my ear and making me gasp in surprise.

“Tying someone up with ropes …” I hazard, which I'm sure isn't the correct answer at all. Just had to get a bit of snippiness in there before things take a carnal turn.

“Wrong.” Oscar yanks on the ropes holding my arms together, and I cry out. I'm glad we're outside of the main house, so Rebecca can't hear us. “In shibari, there needs to be an emotional connection between the person tying the ropes, and the one being tied up. If there isn't, then it's simply Western bondage.” He scowls and puts his head up against the side of mine. My eyes close against the touch as my heart pounds.

Oscar steps aside, moving around to look at me from the front. When I try to adjust my arms, they won't move, but they also don't hurt either. The ropes aren't too tight; they feel more like a long-lasting caress than some sort of BDSM punishment. I look up at him in his suit and evergreen tie, gray eyes focused on my face in just such a way that I have to resist the urge to squirm.

Bernadette Blackbird does not fucking squirm. Gross.

“You're not going to like me after this,” Oscar says, reaching out an inked hand and cupping the side of my face. His fingers and hands rank up there with the most beautiful things I've ever seen. His fingers are long and wicked, the hands of an idle devil, and his tattoos look to be poured from the inkwell of a mad god. When he touches me, his hand is surprisingly warm. “But I can't help myself. Despite what you might think, I do not have Victor's control.”

I keep my eyes closed for a moment, but when I open them, I find Oscar with his jacket off, tie loose, and slacks undone. He holds his inked and pierced cock in that gorgeous hand of his, stroking his fingers along its length.

“Sex is such a strange concept, don't you think?” he asks, his voice as smooth as that thirty-five-thousand-dollar cognac we drank at the Vincents' place. It goes down nice and easy, making my belly burn with the taste. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The tension in that room is so thick that I'm surprised it doesn't fog up the asshole's glasses.

“I think it's a double-edged sword, a perfectly awful execution of the soul in the wrong hands … and a melding of souls in a different set.”

“Which set of hands do you think I have, Bernadette?” Oscar asks me, slicking his thumb over the tip of his cock and making it shiny with pre-ejac.

“The hands of the devil,” I whisper back, closing my eyes. Oscar grabs me by the hair and yanks my head back, leaning down to put his mouth near mine. I can practically taste him, a strange poison that reminds me of night-blooming flowers and pain. He doesn't kiss me though, just laughs against my lips and pulls my hair a little harder.

“The hands of the devil is right,” Oscar agrees and then he pushes me back and onto his bed. He parts my knees with his pretty hands and kneels between them, looking down at me with gray eyes and an expression that cuts. My chest rises and falls in rapid motions, sweat beading between my breasts. My arms are trapped underneath me, leaving me to wait for him to bestow his wicked mercy upon me.

Oscar runs his HAVOC tatted fingers down my throat, and I groan, remembering the feel of my own hands on his inked neck. He was underneath me, cut off from oxygen, and I really thought he was giving it his all. What a stupid assumption to make. Sure, the hardest hearts are forged in fire, but the most wicked are the flames that smelt that metal.

“You're not going anywhere, are you?” he asks me, absently stroking my throat with one hand and teasing his cock with the other. “No matter how hard Aaron and I try, we're undermined at every turn. Callum undermines us; Hael undermines us.” Oscar scowls violently and his fingers curve around my neck, pinning me to the bed. “Victor undermines us.” He presses down a little harder, and I gasp.