With one hand gripping my hip to hold me steady, he started to circle the pad of his finger over my opening, making me drool around the gag.

Waiting . . . waiting . . . Right when the vibrator came back on, he dipped inside to his knuckle.

At last! I moaned at the exquisite sensation. With the vibrator humming, he pumped his finger.

Against the gag, I cried, “More!”

“As you wish.” More oil. Deeper penetration. “You think I would hurt you like this? That I wouldn’t prepare you?” Another finger joined the first, wedging inside, stretching me.

For what felt like agonizing hours, he gave me shallow pumps. More oil. Deeper. More oil. Wider. Vibrator buzzing on and off.

I was glad of the gag when I began to babble and beg. Please, please, please. I was ready—couldn’t be more ready. By the time he removed his fingers, I was nearly insensible.

I heard him squirting more oil. To slather over his heavy length? I could all but see him oiling himself, gliding his big hands across the taut head, the thickened base, along those prominent veins.

I wanted so badly to stroke him, to lick him, anything, but I was helpless. Even without the gag, my mouth would’ve been ajar, starved for something to suck. Every inch of my body was empty and open, receptive to whatever he wanted to give me. . . .

When the crown kissed my hole, I shook from the jolt of sensation.

“Don’t fight me,” he groaned. “Let me in.” He pressed forward, entering me—just as the vibrator ramped up once more.

Once the entire oiled head was inside, I moaned because it was so good. Better than good.

He delved farther, his girth difficult to accept. Even still, pleasure suffused me the deeper he went.

Between gnashed teeth, he said, “Teper’ ti prenodlizhish mne vsetselo.” Now I’ve possessed you. Completely. He sounded as crazed as he’d looked earlier.

I twisted my head around and chanced a look back. His gaze was riveted to where our bodies joined. If eyes could incinerate . . .

Was he overwhelmed like me? How strange; I was bound, vulnerable, impaled—yet he seemed overpowered by this act taking place between us.

He withdrew a couple of inches. As I writhed, trying to adjust to him, I felt him drizzling more oil. “Relax, love. Surrender to me.”

I willed myself to relax as much as I could.

“Good girl.” Then he gave his first thrust into my ass, bellowing with satisfaction. The force of it rocked my body, pulling on my collar.

I could do nothing but cry his name against my gag—accepting the fact that I had leather strapped around my neck, that my arms were immobile, that I’d been wired to a device meant to drive me out of my mind.

That the man I loved had completely dominated me, and I was melting for him.

He drew his hips back, then rolled them forward, sending his c**k even deeper. After another measured stroke, he f**ked harder, grunting with pleasure. His sweating body slapped the oiled curves of my ass—more punishment against flesh that had already been whipped into submission. Conquered.

But I reveled in the sound of our skin colliding, knowing he was about to make me come. And then he would follow. He’d told me he would fill me up with cum. . . .

Yet then he stilled. “Up on your knees.” He lifted me so I was kneeling with my back to his torso. He wrapped an arm across my chest, seizing my left breast in a possessive grip, trapping my bound arms between us.

His free hand trailed down my belly. With the heel of his palm, he cupped the humming vibrator tighter against my clit, then he stretched two fingers farther between my legs. He plunged them inside my hungry pu**y right as he bucked behind me—and it was . . .

Cataclysmic.

He wrenched an orgasm from my core, screams from my lungs. As the pleasure rolled on and on, fierce contractions overtook my lower body.

“I feel you!” With a savage bellow, he joined me, beginning to ejaculate. His fingertips dug into my curves, his hips jerking with each palpable shot of hot cum—one after another as he grated, “Never forget . . . who you belong to!”

Long after he’d emptied himself inside me, he kept thrusting, as if he didn’t want to relinquish his new prize.

Finally, he collapsed over me. In a hoarse rasp, he told me in Russian, “There is nothing left of me. . . .”

Chapter 43

Sevastyan freed me.

He hadn’t nuzzled my neck as he used to, hadn’t shown me his usual affection. He’d merely pulled out of me, leaving me limp on the bed, then started on buckles and straps.

Once he’d removed everything, my arms and jaw were sore. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or say.

Without a word, he scooped me up and into the bathroom, turning on the shower. In the tangle of my mind, one thought stood out. Nothing has changed.

I was still stuck in this hopeless relationship, devoid of trust and sharing. Except that now, he seemed even more distanced.

There is nothing left of me. What had he meant by that? Did he mean that he’d come his brains out and was empty?

Or that this was all I’d ever get from him? Beyond sex, there was nothing?

I plumbed my emotions and recognized that I was feeling . . . despair.

He carried me into the shower, easing me to my feet to stand with him under the spray of hot water. He poured bath oil into his palms, washing me with his bare hands. “Let me tend to you,” he murmured as he laved my body with such familiarity, as if we’d been together for years.

As a husband would a wife. Like two people who trusted each other.