That night, he lost it.
He bound me face down on the massive four-poster bed, my limbs locked in solid gold shackles. He held a whip woven from silk, the kind that wouldn't break skin, but delivered relentless, maddening stimulation, like thousands of ants crawling across every nerve.
"Scared, Evelyn?" He straddled me, watching my defiant eyes, and something flickered in his golden gaze, a twisted flash of anguish.
I clenched my jaw. Cold sweat soaked my hair. I refused to make a single sound of surrender. If my glare could kill, he'd die a million times already.
Finally, he dropped the whip. His eyes were bloodshot when he entered me, with a force that bordered on self-destruction.
During the rough s*x, savage as two caged animals ripping into each other, I felt him tremble.
It was
