Pretty Boy laughed. “She might be stupid but she’s got a pretty cunt. I can see why you took her.” The others followed, saying various things about my body, except for one, the one in the corner. Crazy A. He remained silent, but his silence was no less unnerving because he stared straight at me. The others were looking between my thighs, but he was looking at my face.
Somehow that was worse.
I swallowed and went to the place inside my mind I was starting to recognize as my only haven. I burrowed deeper and deeper inside myself, only to be dragged out by the ankles by the low reverberation I recognized as the Beast’s voice.
“I think we’re done here,” he said.
My eyes shot up. What did he just say?
“What?” Little O sat up straighter, eyebrows creased.
“No we aren’t,” Big O looked to the other assholes, as if they would explain what was going on.
“We haven’t gotten to Lucia,” Pretty Boy insisted.
“That’s old news,” the Beast interrupted. “I was informed of her already.”
Pretty Boy relaxed at that. “So you know she is colluding with The Council against you. Good.” Some emotion flashed across Beast’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly I couldn’t decipher it.
He stood up, fi
sts planted firmly on his desk, and said, “Leave.” Rapt, I watched as all four demons moved to the door, some of them shaking their heads. The silent one, Crazy A, walked without complaint, but he stared at me the entire time, his face an unsettling, probing half-smile.
I was afraid to breathe. Afraid for my blood to pump. Afraid to think. Afraid for any part of my body to move, even subconsciously. The Beast moved out from behind his desk and bent until he was on my level. I looked away.
“Open your legs.”
I clenched my teeth at his words, trying to stymy the tears clogging up my throat. I couldn’t let him see my weakness, couldn’t let him know he got to me, but I had no options here. My eyes flashed to the door. The men were there, their bodies hidden in the darkness. They were on the precipice of leaving and somehow that made it worse. It was like they knew they could leave, but they chose to stay.
For my humiliation.
Slowly I spread my legs but I focused on the wrinkle on my elbow. Focusing on anything else. Beast’s low brogue drifted into my ear.
“Your cunt is wet, Frankie. Do you like having it on display?” I shook my head furiously at his question. He leaned in so his next words were a hot breath against my ear. “Do you like showing it to other men?” My vision blurred with the deepness of his voice and the way his breath tickled my ear. I tried not to think about the question, on the way the wrongness of the entire situation was screaming right inside my body. Instead I focused on the way my throat felt when I swallowed, the expanding and contracting.
His long fingers curled firmly around my upper thighs, pushing my legs apart until my lips separated on their own. Cool air rushed in. The sensation had my mouth parting on a groan, so I pressed my chin against my chest, hoping to keep my jaw wired shut. He kept opening my legs, pushing them farther and farther apart harder until my muscles pulled.
“You’re very wet,” he murmured. His stubble scratched against my skin as he spoke. The sharp line of his jaw against my cheek was like a knife to a peach. Removing one hand from my thigh, he used the finger to split my lips, the pad of his pointer finger gliding slowly through my slit. Against all the protestations in my mind, I shivered.
He slowly slid back against my cheek until he was on the balls of his feet, looking at me. I focused on the floor so I wouldn’t have to look at him, but he grabbed my chin and pulled my eyes to him. When my gaze was elsewhere, it had almost been like a nightmare, something I could discount as false in my mind. Now it was painfully, viscerally real. Our eyes connected like a camera zooming in at top speed. His turquoise depths demanded something of me I couldn’t yet acknowledge. My mind screamed at me to close my eyes, to stop what was happening before it was too late.
A darker voice whispered to keep them open.
His finger slid from me and then he held it up. It was shiny and slick. “See how wet you are. What is that, Frankie?” My breath hitched in my throat, the dark whisper inside me getting louder and threatening to overtake the rational screaming in my mind.
I glared, shifting focus. “Another example of failed sexual education? Wet doesn’t mean horny, dickhead.” He smiled at me and while keeping my chin locked between his fingers, he lowered his other finger out of sight. With a rough motion, he jerked my chin so I was looking down, helpless but to watch my own mortification.
His fingers slid from my chin and I quickly looked away. Almost immediately his harsh voice was in my ear. “Look at yourself.” I rolled my eyes at his demand. “If you don’t look at yourself,” he said evenly, “I’ll spread you until your juice drips down your ass and then I’ll invite one of my men to lick it up.”
The breath caught in my throat disappeared and suddenly I was suffocating. My eyes flicked to the door. I couldn’t see past the Beast’s massive frame. Were they all really still there? Unsure, fear ricocheted inside me—but something else too, something that matched the dark voice. It coiled with a fever in my body until I felt sweaty and needy. I looked down, his threat doing the job.
“Satisfied?” I hissed.
“Longer,” he replied, voice low and almost soothing. My nostrils flared but I looked anyway. Using both pads of his thumbs, he pressed gently into my lips and pulled me wider and wider apart. I’d never seen myself this way. It was…garish, but my heart thrummed in my chest and I could feel the sweat on my brow. A fire burned so badly inside me but I didn’t know what would wet it.
My lips were spread so wide I could see the wet, pink insides. The outer folds were completely pulled back. I looked to appease him at first, but now I was looking simply because I couldn’t look away. Then I watched in horror as one of his fingers stroked me. It was like watching a house burn down. I kept waiting for it to stop, to reverse, to go back to the way it was before the conflagration. The longer he stroked, the more damage I knew would be done, the less there would be for firefighters to save. All the while, I couldn’t help but think I caused it. I felt so hot. So needy. So achy. Even in the cold room, I was sweating. Every stroke, every light caress of his finger, was pure fire, and trying to keep my mouth shut and keep myself from moving—keep him from at least seeing how he affected me—drove the blaze inside me higher. I was burning up.
I just sat there watching him stroke me, feeling like some helpless spectator, thinking about all the pictures I would lose because I hadn’t backed them up. He wasn’t exactly gentle, but he was calculating. He knew exactly which buttons to push to make me bite my lip hard enough to bleed. The fever inside burned but I would rather taste copper and swallow blood than give him the satisfaction of my moans. When his thumb moved higher, stroking around my clit, though, I nearly lost it.