A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

His eyes were heated, pupils dilated and glued to me.

“You know that it was something closer to rape than anything else, and instead of admitting it was something traumatic and wrong, you’ve carved it into your identity. Built it into the foundation of who you are, how you like to be fucked.” He paused, his fingers pausing with him, right at the edge of my orgasm. “Who you want to fuck you.”

“So what?” I hissed. My voice was breathy, nowhere near as furious as it should’ve been. “You’re going to try and force me to work through my trauma while I’m your prisoner? You’re going to try and fix me?”

The prospect scared me. Fucking terrified me. I needed to escape. To run. But his fingers were inside me. My body would not let me leave. Even now.

Cristian’s eyes ran over me. “No, Sienna, I’m not. I’m not that kind of man,” he said slowly, still not moving his fingers. “It was your childhood trauma that created your desires. All the men that came into your life. That tried to take things from you.”

He leaned forward to lay his lips on my neck, gently, barely there. My entire body quivered.

“Your past is the reason your pussy is wet for me even when you’re terrified,” Cristian murmured, moving his fingers enough to elicit a reaction from my entire body. “Your past is the reason you come so hard when you’re in pain. It’s the reason you want me even though I’m much too old for you. Too dangerous for you.”

He swirled his finger once more, slowly, with purpose. “It’s the reason why, if I ask, you’ll crawl on all fours toward me and let me come wherever I want.” His eyes never left mine, his voice thick with hunger.

His gaze was like staring into fucking eternity, it made me question everything about my fucking soul.

“You’ll let me tie you up, naked, and eat your pussy while five men watch me,” Cristian whispered. “It is the reason why you haven’t run, haven’t tried to hurt me. Because deep down, you like this. Me. You want this.”

My body shook as the words sunk in, as his fingers explored me slowly. Infuriatingly slowly. He wasn’t going to let me come. He wanted me to beg. He wanted me to fucking agree with everything he was saying.

“I gave you all my weaknesses, my desires, and you’re using them against me. To ruin me,” I accused, glaring at him, sinking my nails into the arms of the chair.

Cristian studied me. “I am,” he agreed. “Isn’t that what you wanted when you gave them to me?”

He didn’t give me the chance to respond because he knew that there was nothing I could say to challenge him. Instead, he pulled his fingers from my pussy.

My body rebelled at the loss, and I glared at Cristian, furious.

“Get up, Sienna,” he ordered, not an ounce of warmth in his voice.

Although I wanted to refuse, to tell him that I was not going to let a man order me around after what happened this morning, my body disobeyed me. I was on my feet following him before my brain could even catch up.

As much as I hated it, something deep inside responded to him ordering me like that. I had taken care of myself my entire life and had made tough decisions in order to be able to do that. Yet it was liberating to not have to make a decision every now and then. To default to someone who was going to push me to my limits.

And I would soon discover exactly what those limits were.

I froze the second I walked into my bedroom and saw what was laying on my bed.

“What is that?” I fucking hated that my voice trembled.

Cristian brushed the hair from the nape of my neck and kissed my skin. I shivered, half disgusted, half turned-on.

“It’s not the original, of course,” he spoke against my neck. “But I had someone do some research, find the designs ... and I had this made.”

My eyes ran over the uniform I’d worn many years ago. It looked identical to the one I’d lost my virginity in.

“Put it on.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the uniform. Images from that afternoon in the trailer assaulted my mind. His strong, callused hands. The pain as he pushed into me, mixed with pleasure. The wrongness of it all.

I’d enjoyed it at the time. I’d spent my life telling myself I’d enjoyed it. It defined all of my adult sexual relationships. That day ruined whatever relationship I’d had with my mother, tainted it, even though she never found out. It was the reason I distanced myself from her, why she’d tried even harder to connect with me. Why she died with my hand holding hers, my eyes dry from whatever tears I might’ve shed had things been different.