93

93
Lucien
“Please, Master. Please…”
Moore cried hard, her lips finally uttering the words I could swear she would rather die than say.
But not in a condition where her legs were tied together, denying her the freedom to move. Her wrists were secured firmly above her head, her bare body spread across my lap while I sat on the bed—in the room where she belonged. The death room.
I had made her walk naked to this room. It was only three in the morning, and all I wanted was to fuck her so hard she collapsed underneath me.
I rubbed her right cheek again, the softness beneath my palm making my lips curve into a smile. Moore was a delight, and despite how hard I was trying to fight against her getting under my skin, I needed to remind myself why I married her in the first place.
Without warning, my palm landed on her tanned skin—a complexion so fair I knew my mark would remain on her for a long time.
She screamed. “Master, please…”
“You hugged him, Moore. In public… What gave you the guts to do that?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she begged, her body trembling violently beneath my hold.
“You’re not sorry, Moore. You keep misbehaving.” I let out a slow breath, rubbing the now-hot spot on her skin. It looked so delicious I wanted to bury my face in it. The sight of pain on her ass made me so hard, I bet she could feel my arousal pressing against her stomach.
“I won’t anymore. Just stop, please…” she whimpered. She had stopped counting after the fifteenth slap on her round ass. Now, I bet she’d lost count. Hell, I did too.
“Everyone submits at the sight of pain. But the next minute, Moore, they forget and do something even worse.” I said, delivering the final slap—this time, harder than all the rest.
She yelped, a loud, agonizing scream, as if it could tear down a house.
“Oh God…” she breathed, choking on a sob as I carried her up from my lap in one swift motion and gently placed her on the bed. Her body was still shaking.
“Spare His name, Moore. I bet He didn’t talk you into taking the life of the only family that meant something to me.” My voice was dangerously low as I stood up and began undressing.
“I’m sorry about it… I had no idea she would die.” She sniffed, her voice barely above a whisper.
And it baffled me.
I expected her to argue. To fight back. To tell me it wasn’t her fault that Ava died. To tell me it wasn’t her fucking fault that I was beginning to feel something for her. To tell me it wasn’t her fault that I almost kissed her right at my door—if she had so much as bitten her lip!
God, I hate it so much.
I hate how I take in every detail of her. How I remember the way she laughs. How her disappointed looks haunt me. How she has rendered me into a fucking mess.
I had actually slept for hours because Moore was right beside me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to lie next to her again—just to see if it had been a coincidence. A coincidence that I held her frail fingers so dearly against my chest while my other arm rested on her. That I had snuggled into Moore. That I had found solace in her embrace.
All of it tormented me.
And the worst part? I hated seeing her in pain—especially when I wasn’t the cause of it. I hated that I got jealous. Not the kind of jealousy I would have assumed, but the kind that made my heart twist at the thought of someone else touching her.
Fuck it.
She was still sobbing. But there was no way I was going easy on her tonight. I needed to remind myself that she was someone I loathed. I had to make sure of it—even if it meant breaking her all over again.
I would take Moore without restraint. And I would do it every fucking night.
I walked over to her, my chest now bare as I untied her legs. I would give her the chance to run again tonight—and then I would watch her succumb to pleasure as I fucked her.
I would give her pleasure… and take it away when she needed it most.
The only way to keep myself sane was to do what I had always promised to do with Moore.
I untied her hands, then her legs. But she didn’t move. She only whimpered, refusing to look at me.
“Sit up.”
I had seen her curling her legs in her sleep earlier. She was obviously having a wet dream, and I would make her tell me who she had been fucking in her dream.
“I… I can’t,” she muttered, sniffing.
“Moore.” My voice came out cold. A warning. There were only so many limits before I snapped and broke her beyond repair.
“I’m sore. It stings. I can’t sit…”
“I don’t give a fuck.” I groaned, my fists clenching. “You will do as I say the instant I order you to.”
She knew it was pointless to argue, so she sat up—wincing as she tried to balance her weight, avoiding pressing down on her raw, hurting skin.
The look on her face turned me on so badly.
“Watch.”
She said nothing, though I could sense the restraint in her lips.
Locking eyes with her, I pulled down my trousers. I would have made her do it, but I was too much in a hurry to bury myself inside her to think about anything else.
In seconds, I stood bare—my cock hard and rigid.
I caught the flicker in her eyes as they traced my tattoos down to my forearm, where they ended, before moving back up to my torso and chest.
She was avoiding looking down at the part that mattered most.
Such innocence.
“Get on all fours, Moore. Face me.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she obeyed, keeping her eyes on my upper body while avoiding staring at my cock.
She would taste it soon enough. So whether she looked at it or not didn’t matter.
“Open up.”
“What?” she asked, her voice genuinely confused.
“Your mouth, Moore.” I smirked. “Open your mouth and tell me about the dream you hadvwhike I fuck that mouth of yours.”