Chapter 108: Losing Control

I followed her like a kicked puppy that still, for reasons beyond comprehension, wanted to be loved by its owner.

The bow was gone now, melted back into whatever nightmare pocket dimension it had crawled out of, leaving no trace except the ringing in my ears and the taste of iron on my tongue. My legs felt like wet parchment, but I kept pace anyway, because falling behind Iskanda felt like a crime against nature itself.

She walked with that same unhurried, predatory grace, hips swaying just enough to make my eyes glue themselves to the curve of her ass like I was a starving man and she was the last pastry on the continent.

I hated her for it. I wanted to drop to my knees and thank her for it. I wanted to cry.

Instead I laughed—high, cracked, mortifying. The sound ricocheted off the walls like a drunken courtesan stumbling out of a confessional.

My foot, because the universe has a personal vendetta against me, found the one invisible crack in the entire endless hallway and I pitched forward with all the grace of a sack of drunken potatoes tumbling down a staircase.

“Fuck—!” I yelped, arms pinwheeling, already tasting the cold, humiliating kiss of marble against my teeth.

Iskanda’s hand snapped out faster than thought, fingers locking around my wrist like a manacle forged from pure heat and sin. She hauled me upright so hard my shoulder popped and my entire body slammed against hers.

Her arm slid around my waist, palm spreading wide over the dip just above my ass, fingers curling possessively into the fabric of my skirt like she was claiming territory.

“You’re going to break your pretty little neck,” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear, breath scalding, “and then who would I ruin tonight, hm?”

I made a noise—half-sob, half-moan, entirely pathetic. My face was on fire, cheeks blazing so hot I was shocked my hair didn’t ignite. My cock was harder than the marble under our feet, straining against soaked lace, a steady pulse of need that matched the frantic drum of my heart.

Something was wrong, deliciously, syrupy wrong. My blood had turned to molten honey, thick and slow, dripping through my veins and pooling low in my belly, behind my balls, in the aching head of my cock.

The dizziness came in soft, rolling waves, each one licking at the edges of my vision until the lanterns bled lazy streaks of gold and her scent—warm skin, crushed sage, and the unmistakable musk of sex—crawled inside my lungs before taking up residence. I told myself it was adrenaline. I lied like a rug soaked in holy water and set on fire.

We stopped in front of a set of doors so tall and black they looked like the gates to whatever hell had a velvet-roped VIP list and a dress code that started with “naked and begging.”

Iskanda pressed one palm flat against the wood and they swung inward on silent hinges, exhaling a breath that hit me like a fist to the sternum.

The room beyond was a cathedral built for the worship of every depraved thing I’d ever wanted yet never dared ask for—vaulted ceiling disappearing into velvet shadow, a fireplace big enough to roast three of me and still have room for dessert, flames licking greedily up the stone like they wanted to devour the very air.

And a bed—gods, the bed. A mountain of black silk and blood-red velvet piled so high it looked like someone had murdered decadence itself and left the body to rot in the most luxurious way possible. It’s canopy draped like a funeral shroud for every shred of chastity I’d never actually possessed.

Iskanda kicked the doors shut with her heel. The boom hit me in the sternum and traveled straight down to throb behind my balls like a second heartbeat.

She turned, firelight licking over the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the heavy swell of her breasts, the long lethal lines of her body that made my mouth water and my knees buckle. She started unlacing her boots with slow, deliberate pulls that sounded obscene in the hush. Each tug of leather through metal eyelet felt like a promise.

“You’ll be sleeping with me tonight,” she said, voice low and lazy. My brain imploded. Sparks. Static. A high-pitched whine behind my eyes.

“Here?” I squeaked, voice cracking so hard it probably registered on the Richter scale. “Like—in the same bed? With you? The actual you?”

She laughed—deep, filthy, the sound of velvet dragging over bare skin and broken promises—and flung one boot across the room so hard it left a dent in the wall.

“Yes, little lamb,” she purred, kicking the second boot off with equal violence. “In the same bed. With me. Naked, preferably, but I’ll let you keep the panties if you beg nicely.”

My face went supernova. My cock leaked so hard I felt the wet spot bloom and spread, a slow, shameful slide of precum down the inside of my thigh.

I clutched my wrist to my chest like it could shield me from the tidal wave of want crashing through every cell in my body, like it could stop my heart from trying to claw its way out of my ribcage and throw itself at her feet.

Inside my skull, a tiny, sane version of me was screaming, banging on the walls, writing its last will and testament in tears.

Iskanda flopped backward onto the bed with zero grace and all the authority of a queen claiming her throne after a long day of conquest. Limbs starfished, hair spilling like ink over crimson silk, the fire catching on her bronzed stomach glistening faintly with sweat.

“Come here,” she ordered, voice soft but edged with steel that went straight to my knees and made my cock jerk hard enough to hurt.

I crawled. Of course I crawled. I crawled like a penitent across silk so soft it felt like a thousand tongues licking every inch of exposed skin, teasing the backs of my thighs, the curve of my ass, the sensitive skin behind my knees.

The mattress dipped and rolled me toward her like the bed itself wanted me pressed against her side, drowning in her heat.

I ended up half-draped over her, cheek pressed to the warm, heavy curve of her breast, heartbeat thundering under my ear like war drums calling me to surrender. Saints, she was warm. Too warm. The whole world was spinning gently, like the room was a wineglass and someone had just flicked the rim hard enough to make it sing.

The canopy above us doubled, tripled, swayed like seaweed underwater. My tongue felt three sizes too big, thick and useless.

Iskanda rolled onto her side, propped her head on one hand, and cupped my burning cheek with the other. Her thumb dragged slow and filthy across my lower lip, pressing just enough to part them, to make me taste the salt of her skin and the faint metallic trace of whatever dark power lived in her veins.

Then she kissed me.

Not gentle. Not sweet. A full, carnal invasion—tongue sliding against mine, teeth nipping sharp enough to draw blood, sucking the air from my lungs and replacing it with smoke and sex. She tasted like gunpowder, honey, and every bad decision I’d ever made rolled into one perfect, devastating mouthful.

I whined into her mouth, high and broken, hands fisting the sheets because if I touched her I was going to combust, beg, or both, and I wasn’t sure which would kill me faster.

She pulled back just enough to breathe against my wet, swollen lips, “I’ll train you.”

“I—thank you—please—” I babbled, words tumbling over each other like fallen nobles fighting over the last bottle of absinthe.

She hushed me with another kiss, then dragged me down until my face was buried between her breasts. Her heartbeat thundered against my cheek, steady, strong, and utterly merciless.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered, fingers threading through my hair, nails scraping my scalp until I shuddered and leaked helplessly into my panties, “you’ll pay me back. Every lesson in sweat, in tears, in pretty broken pleas while I take you apart piece by piece. Tonight, you rest.”

I nodded frantically, drooling on her tits like the degenerate I was, cock pulsing so hard I was terrified I’d come in my panties just from the vibration of her voice rumbling through her chest.

She chuckled, the sound rumbling through her chest into my bones like distant thunder, and flopped onto her back again. One eye cracked open, gleaming like a satisfied cat who’d already eaten the canary and was licking cream from her whiskers.

“Try not to do anything rash.”

Then she was asleep. Or pretending. Her breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in deep, even pulls that made her breasts shift beneath the thin fabric of her wrap, nipples hard and visible, lips parted just enough to show the wet pink of her tongue like an invitation.

I lasted forty-five seconds.

Maybe thirty.

My cock was a steel bar trapped in lace, leaking steadily, smearing precum in a sticky, humiliating trail across my thigh every time I shifted.

It was then that I knew, with absolute certainty, that I’d been drugged, probably from the tea, definitely from the tea, and I was going to kiss whoever brewed it. I could practically feel its effects singing a filthy siren song in my bloodstream, turning every brush of silk into fingers, every breath of warm air into a tongue licking up my spine and settling hot and wet between my legs.

I panted against her collarbone, hips rolling helplessly, grinding my aching cock against the firm muscle of her thigh like a dog in heat, the friction exquisite and nowhere near enough.

The first hump was accidental. The second was pure desperation. By the third I was whining high in my throat, fingers digging into the plush weight of her breast, kneading like I could milk pleasure straight out of her skin, like I could leave bruises in the shape of my obsession.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, my brain chanted in fading, pathetic echoes.

I sat up without warning, slapping both hands over my face and trying to breathe through the haze that tasted of want and utter ruin.

Terrible, terrible idea.

The movement dragged silk across her body, baring the long column of her throat glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, the delicate hollow above her collarbone that begged for teeth, the obscene, swollen curve of her lips still glistening from my mouth and parted like she was dreaming of being filled.

I was doomed. I was so doomed I should have come with a warning label tattooed across my forehead in glowing letters.

I crawled over her like a man possessed, hands shaking as I stripped myself bare: skirt peeled down trembling thighs with a sound like tearing paper, boots kicked off with frantic little thuds, panties dragged away with a wet, obscene sound that made me whimper and leak even more.

I was naked now, cock jutting up lewd and angry, flushed dark and shining. Precum beaded at the slit and rolled in slow, shining rivulets down the shaft like tears.

I straddled her hips, staring down at her sleeping face like the worst kind of pervert, like every filthy fantasy I’d ever had had been granted sentience and decided tonight was the night it collected its due.

She looked so soft. So unguarded. Her cheeks were flushed from the fire, lashes casting long shadows on her cheekbones that I wanted to trace with my tongue.

I leaned down, fist wrapped tight around the base of my cock to stop myself from cumming on the spot, and pressed the slick, swollen head to her lower lip.

Just a touch. Just to feel.

Her breath stuttered, warm and humid across the sensitive crown, and my vision whited out for a second, knees nearly buckling.

I pressed again, firmer, sliding past her lips, over the slick heaven of her tongue that curled lazily even in sleep like it knew exactly how to ruin me.

She didn’t wake. Or maybe she was letting me. I didn’t care. I was past caring. I was past salvation.

I sank in slow, eyes rolling back as wet heat enveloped me inch by torturous inch, throat fluttering softly around the head like a promise.

I started thrusting—desperate little snaps of my hips, watching the bulge of my cock move under the delicate skin of her cheek like a living, breathing beast.

My balls drew up tight, orgasm clawing at the base of my spine with razor claws and a filthy grin.

I shifted, angled deeper, and slid straight into her throat with one smooth, obscene push that made her breath hitch and her mouth shutter around me like a vice made of velvet and sin.

She made a soft, wet choking sound, and I nearly screamed, hips stuttering as pleasure stabbed white-hot through my gut.

“Holy fuck, I’m gonna cum~”

I whispered, voice shredded and raw as I pulled out from her mouth with a wet, filthy gasp. I held my cock steady and watched as it pulsed, just once, before promptly erupting.

Thick, steaming ropes of cum shot across her face—one fat stripe over her plush lips, another across her cheek, a third catching in her lashes and dripping slow and obscene down her temple like tears of pure debauchery.

I yelped, high and horrified, slapping a hand over my mouth as the last little spurt dribbled onto her chin and slid toward the hollow of her throat in a pearly trail.

Oh Saints, oh fuck, oh no, what have I done, I’m dead, I’m so dead she’s going to skin me and wear me as a coat—

I scrambled, spinning on my knees, cock still twitching and dripping, searching wildly for a cloth, a towel, the mercy of the gods that I definitely didn’t deserve.

When I turned back, Iskanda was staring up at me with the single most smug, evil, triumphant smirk I’d ever seen carved onto a human face.

Her tongue slid out, slow and deliberate, licking a fat stripe of my cum off her upper lip like it was the finest cream in the city.

Then something moved between her thighs—thick, obscene, and growing.

The strip of cloth between her legs strained, stretched, a fat bulge swelling beneath it until the fabric looked ready to tear with a sound I would beg to hear.

My brain flatlined. My cock, traitor that it was, gave another helpless pulse and leaked onto the sheets.

Without any hint of warning, her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat—not cruel, just owning—and yanked me back so hard the world tilted.

We tumbled off the bed in a tangle of limbs, heat, and the stench of sex, hitting the thick rug in front of the fireplace with a thud that knocked the breath from my lungs and left me staring up at her like a supplicant before his goddess.

She loomed over me, hair spilling like liquid shadow, amber eyes glowing with predatory delight. Her lips, ever smirking, still glistened with my cum.

“Kneel,” she commanded as she stood.

“Saints, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—” I babbled, crawling to my knees so fast my spine cracked and my forehead nearly kissed the rug.

She chuckled, low and dark, fingers tightening just enough to make my cock leak another helpless bead of desperation.

“Eager little thing,” she purred, licking another streak of my cum from the corner of her mouth like it was dessert. “Couldn’t even wait till morning.”

She undid the knot at her hip with one lazy tug.

The cloth fell.

And Saints fucking preserve my soul, her cock sprang free like it had been caged for centuries and tonight was its violent, glorious jailbreak.

It was monstrous—thick as my wrist and then some—veined, heavy, and flushed so dark it looked bruised with arousal. The fat head glistened with a bead of precum so thick it trembled, ready to fall like a pearl of pure ruin.

Gods above, it was three times my size. Maybe four. A lifetime supply of dick and then some, curved slightly upward like it was designed to hit every secret place inside me and make me scream her name until my voice gave out.

I whimpered, actually whimpered, mouth flooding with saliva, staring at that beast like it was both apocalypse and salvation wrapped in velvet and served on a platter of my complete and utter surrender.

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