Blyssfully Undone (The Blyss Trilogy 3)

“I’m not going to hold you accountable as much as I am Travis, because I know you had been drugged the entire time he had you,” he begins, “but you are still going to be held liable.” My eyes bolt open wide and my pulse spikes. He stops pacing to regard me, pegging me with a heated stare as his lips lift in a knowing grin. “What I am going to hold you liable for, my dear, is that for every orgasm he gave you, I plan to replace it with my own, tenfold. I am going to erase away any trace of his DNA from your body, both mentally and physically.

Confused, I have no idea what this man is about to do to me. My mouth goes dry as I nervously glance about, darting my eyes from one wall to the next, where empty hooks and barren display cases decorate the room. Even though I don’t see a whip, I know he’s got them. I just pray to God my punishment doesn't include that. A cold shiver runs through me, and I visibly quiver.

Nick leans in, hovering over my spread-eagled body, his eyes narrowing on mine. “Are you scared, sweetheart?” he taunts with a hint of arrogance.

I dig deep down, pulling out some false courage I don’t have as I force my vocal cords to stay steady and calm. “I trust you, Nick.” It’s all I can muster without my voice wanting to waver.

Satisfied with my answer, a small smirk tugs on the corner of his lips, and then he steps away. A dominant display of authority and control is evident in every movement he makes, as his expression gives nothing away.

“Good.” He leans down alongside me and hoists a bag of tricks he apparently had stashed beside the bed. I hold my breath when he pulls out a large, white device that looks like an oversized microphone, and then I swallow hard when I notice it has a long cord with a dial on it. He leans in behind the bed to plug it in. Oh, geez. I pray he doesn’t want to put that mammoth of a marshmallow inside of me, and then turn it on. I’ll die; I just know it.

As he continues setting up in silence, he steals a glance at me every now and then, and judging by the unnerved look on my face, he must find humor in it, because he fights to keep the corners of his mouth in a straight line.

“Did you know,” he says, interrupting my thoughts, “that having at least three orgasms a week can help reduce the risk of a heart attack or stroke by about fifty percent?”

I can’t help but let a little nervous laughter bubble to the surface. “Interesting trivia you’ve got there. I wonder if science has done a study on having sexual escapades so freaky and scary that they increase your risk of a heart attack by a hundred percent.”

He throws his head back and laughs a deep, throaty laugh, and I stifle a smile. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him laugh, and I mean really laugh. He wipes the corner of his eye as his mirth dies down, shaking his head at me in amusement before he leans down, chuckling over my lips. He wears a broad smile as he gives me a light-hearted kiss, and I immediately relax.

“You are so fucking adorable.” He grins, his chocolate eyes twinkling and his mood no longer intimidating.

“Are you ready for your sweet torture, Julianna?”

Believe it or not, the little comedic relief has me ready for whatever it is he wants to dole out. I lift my head to steal a quick kiss from his lips.

“Yes, Sir.”

Ten thousand volts of electrifying sexual energy zings through my body as their vibrations sing a chorus of ethereal voices to my soul. In simple terms, I’m in vibrator overload. It’s an exhilarating thrill, and I’m on the edge of another explosive orgasm.

He wasn’t lying when he said I was going to pay tenfold. I’ve had so many orgasms I’ve lost count. After I came down from the last orgasm—which felt like my twentieth, by the way—I wondered if one could die from too many.

“Ohhh,” I wail, crying out in what could only be the most superlative torture ever known to a woman.

He plunges the five-star vibrator from paradise in and out of my pussy at breakneck speed as he punishes my clit with the big white vibrator, which is to die for. I’m about to cry out with yet another over-the-top orgasmic release, when Nick removes the magic wand from my clit. I pant heavily in quick, successive breaths, lifting my head to look at him with incredulous disbelief.

“Who owns your orgasms?” he asks in an authoritative, stern voice.