"I didn't major in psychology, darling,"
She drawled, voice low and teasing.
"So I'm not signing up to be your personal therapist."
His laugh rolled out, dark, velvet and dangerous. The sound alone sent fresh heat flooding between her thighs, soaking the already ruined lace clinging to her swollen folds.
Jesus. She needed these panties gone. Now.
"If it's not you doing the therapy,"
He murmured, eyes glinting with filthy promise.
"Then I don't want it. The only therapy I need after a session is bending you over and fucking you raw until your legs give out and my cum coating your thighs",
With a smirk tugging at his lips, he went on:
"Because a good, hard fuck after a session is always the best medicine."
Fuck.
She mentally reached for a needle and thread, sewing that wicked mouth shut before it ruined her completely.
"I think you're suffering from a severe deficiency of flirtation filters and basic decency."
She shot back, smirking.
Another slow, seductive laugh, deeper this time. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, her nipples tightening painfully against the thin satin.
"No, baby. Don't think. Know. I know I'm starving. Weeks without burying myself inside that perfect, greedy little cunt. I need to recharge, deep, hard, and often."
He blew her a mocking kiss.
She swatted it away mid-air.
His smirk widened at the sight of her cheeks blooming crimson—pretty rose petals flushed with heat and humiliation.
She rolled her eyes, hissing through her teeth, cheeks burning hotter.
"Fuck off, Mr. Lillard."
His gaze sharpened.
The smile stayed, calm, almost gentle, but behind it lurked something feral, something that promised pain and pleasure in equal measure.
"Don't cuss at me with my surname, Ivy."
His voice dropped to lethal silk.
"Not unless you want my cock shoved so deep down your throat, your lips kissing my balls while you choke and drool for me."
She gasped, sharp, involuntary.
Pupils blown wide.
Heat pulsed low and vicious between her legs, her clit throbbing in time with her racing heart.
God, she was drenched. The panties were beyond salvage.
"Tell me, Mr. Daddy-to-be,"
She taunted, tongue dripping sarcasm as she dragged it slowly across her lower lip.
"Is there no filter in that deviant brain of yours? No little gate that stops the filthy, kinky, depraved shit before it spills out?"
He leaned closer, close enough she could taste the danger on his breath.
"There's a filter for everyone else, little moonlight."
His voice was pure sin.
"But not for you. I want you to hear every goddamn word. I want you to feel them. Because I mean every single one. And you know it."
"I know nothing,"
She snapped.
"Except that you need intensive therapy. Stat."
He chuckled, soft, indulgent, almost fond.
Ahhh… his wife.
Always so sassy.
First Madam Ina, the old caretaker who'd lectured him mercilessly since he was a boy.
Now Ivy.
God must have a personal vendetta, blessing him with two women who loved nothing more than putting him in his place.
"Such a mouthy little wife,"
He purred.
"Keep that sass for the bedroom. Oh wait, too bad. In bed you're not sassy at all. You're soft. Submissive. Melting. Whimpering. Taking every inch like you were made for it. Understandable, though. It's me fucking you senseless."
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Nothing came out.
Stunned.
He'd just called her out, bluntly, brutally, on how she turned into a needy, pliant mess the second he touched her.
"Ha… that hit a nerve kace.... i...i ....Ahhh...."
Her taunt died in a sharp cry.
Pain lanced through her lower back, sudden, vicious.
He surged to his feet in an instant.
Eyes scanning her with predatory precision.
A warm trickle slid down her right side, dark against the pale satin of her backless gown.
Blood.
"Fuck,"
He hissed under his breath.
He scooped her off the chair like she weighed nothing, deposited her on the marble counter with careful strength, then moved, fast, efficient, to the cabinet where they kept the first-aid supplies.
He yanked the drawer open, retrieved the white box, and was back at her side in seconds.
He bent slightly, eyes narrowing as he assessed the damage.
A deep gash sliced across her mid-back, fresh, angry red.
Surrounding scratches and bruises bloomed in shades of red and purple.
His gaze dropped lower, the torn fabric on her left side exposing dried blood trails and faint contusions snaking from her hip down her thigh to her ankle.
He cursed again, low, furious, anger flickering behind the iron calm.
"Turn to your side, Ivy."
The command was quiet.
But the edge beneath it was razor-sharp.
Not to be tested.
She obeyed, slowly turning so her injured back faced him.
He snapped open the first-aid kit, pulled out a cotton swab, and doused it in alcohol until the sharp scent filled the air.
Then, gentle, deliberate, he pressed the soaked cotton to the deepest cut, moving in slow, careful circles to clean the wound.
"Shhhh… ah… hhh…"
Soft, pained whimpers spilled from her lips.
"Fuck, baby, I'm sorry,"
He murmured, voice thick with sympathy.
"It's gonna sting like hell, but you'll be okay. I've got you."
He leaned in, lips brushing the nape of her neck in soft, soothing kisses while he continued cleaning the wound.
Then he exhaled, warm, deliberate, blowing cool air across the raw skin.
The contrast hit her like lightning.
Pain twisted into something darker.
Hotter.
"Ahhh… hmmm… fuck… ahhhh…"
Her cries melted into low, shameful moans, her nipples hardening to aching points beneath the satin as fresh slick gushed between her thighs, ruining what was left of her panties.
He paused.
Smirked against her skin.
"Little moonlight,"
He whispered, voice ruinous and dripping seduction.
"why do I get the feeling you're enjoying my breath on your back more than the pain?"
"I'm not… ahhhhhhh…"
She moaned, loud, helpless, when his long finger traced a slow, torturous line down the uninjured side of her spine.
"Good thing,"
He rasped, pressing another soft kiss to the curve of her shoulder.
"It won't leave a scar, Ivy. I don't like your delicate body marred by anything. Only my marks, my bites, my bruises, my cum leaking from you. Nothing else belongs here, Mrs. Ivana Lillard."
Did she just blush and get drenched simply because he called her by his surname? Yes. She did.
Was it hot? Bloody fucking yes, so scorching that she ached to hear it again and again.
She trembled visibly, violently, her thighs clenching so hard it only made the ache worse.
His words had scorched her from the inside out.
"Mr. Crimson Queen,"
He murmured, voice low and filthy,
"Red and ruined. All by me. For me. I meant every syllable when I said I was going to break you, Ivy."
Her cheeks burned hotter. Legs shook. She pressed her thighs together in a useless attempt to hide the fresh gush of slick soaking through what was left of her panties.
God, she was drenched, the ruined fabric clinging obscenely to her swollen folds.
He bent low again, slow and deliberate, a cotton swab in hand, cleaning the scratches along her thigh.
She prayed he wouldn't smell her.
Prayed he wouldn't notice how badly she was leaking for him.
"Ivy."
Fuck.
That voice.
Deep. Dark. Designed to shred lace and resolve in the same breath.
"Hmmm…?"
"Does it hurt?"
He laughed, soft, dangerous, then replaced it with a slow, wicked smirk.
He leaned closer. Too close.
His face hovered inches from the center of her thighs as he dragged the alcohol soaked cotton in lazy circles over the shallow cuts.
"Uh… of course not…"
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, trying to sound casual and failed miserably.
"Then why are your legs shaking like you're about to come apart?"
His laughter vibrated against her skin.
Her cheeks flamed brighter, her fingers twisted nervously in the bodice of her gown.
"Um… it's the weather. I'm cold."
The lie tasted like ash.
Inside her head: Fuck, Ivy, really? It's boiling in here.
And since when had she started thinking of herself as Ivy?
Since he shortened her name, "Ivana," to that soft, possessive nickname, "Ivy."
Since it started feeling like a caress every time he said it.
She'd stopped correcting him a long time ago.
Now it lived in her bloodstream.
"Is it?"
His voice dropped lower, velvet wrapped around razor wire.
"Or are you slick and dripping? Should I help warm you up by burying my face between these thighs and sucking that juicy little cunt until the cold's gone and all that's left is you screaming my name?"
He spoke the words right against her inner thigh, his hot breath ghosting over the soaked lace.
He knew.
He'd smelled her the second he got close.
The alcohol on the swab had done nothing to mask the sweet, musky evidence of her arousal.
"Um… I'm not cold anymore."
Her voice cracked, stuttering, small.
Face scarlet.
Really, Ivana? Really?
"Ohhhh…"
He drew the sound out, laughing softly, smiling like a predator who'd already won.
Then he straightened, slowly, rising until he stood between her spread thighs.
Arms braced on either side of her hips, caging her against the counter.
Staring down at her, bored on the surface, playful beneath, but the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.
"Do you really think I can't bend you over this counter right now?"
His voice was calm. Lethal.
"Flip you onto your stomach, yank that gown up, spread you wide, and fuck you so hard and deep you forget how to breathe? Pound that tight, dripping cunt until you're sobbing, begging me to stop, knowing damn well I won't?"
He dropped the cotton swab into the trashcan without looking, never breaking eye contact. Her breath seized, and embarrassment crashed over her in waves because she felt it.
The hot, shameful trickle escaping her ruined panties.
Slick slid down her inner thigh, past her knee, dripping slowly and steadily to her ankle.
Both their gazes dropped at the same moment.
A glistening trail of her arousal shining on her skin.
His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing blue until only black remained.
Raw.
Starving.
She expected him to laugh, tease, pull away. Instead, he sank to his knees, bent low, and licked.
One long, deliberate swipe, tongue flat and hot, moved from her ankle upward.
Collecting every drop of her slick in slow, sinful strokes.
Higher.
Higher.
Until he reached the soaked edge of her panties.
She gasped, sharp, shocked, hands flying to the counter's edge for balance.
His fingers dug into the marble counter as he hooked the hem of her gown and shoved it upward, rough and impatient, bunching the satin around her waist and exposing drenched pink lace clinging to her puffy, glistening cunt.
Then he licked again, higher and hungrier, his tongue dragging over the soaked fabric in long, erotic pulls, tasting her through the thin barrier, savoring every inch.
He lifted his gaze, still on his knees, blue eyes piercing straight through her—sharp, intoxicating, unblinking. She couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe.
Was it humiliating? Yes, Bloody, mortifying yes.
Did she want his mouth on her cunt, his tongue buried deep between her folds, right fucking now? Motherfucking yes.
After an eternity of locked stares, his focus dropped back to her soaked panties.
His hands braced on the counter, close enough that his knuckles brushed hers.
"Such a pretty fucking squirter,"
He whispered directly against her mound, hot breath seeping through lace.
"Didn't know my little moonlight could get this wet. Soaked through. Panties can't even hold it anymore, look at you leaking like a faucet. Fuck, baby… you just made me ravenous. I want to eat this sweet, juicy cunt until it's swollen, pink, and sore. Until you can't walk. I fucking need you now"
The words vibrated against her clit.
More slick spilled, copious, obscene.
He hooked the waistband of her panties and dragged them down slowly, letting them slide off her toes and pool on the floor.
"Kac…"
Her voice faltered.
He snatched the drenched scrap of lace, brought it to his nose, and inhaled deeply.
His eyes fluttering half-shut in raw satisfaction and glinting with feral want.
Then tucked them into the pocket of his hoodie like a trophy.
He began to rise, slow and predatory, when her hand shot out, fingers snagging the drawstring of his hoodie and yanking hard.
She dragged him up, close, until his mouth was a breath from hers.
And whispered.
"Kiss me."
Her breath scorched his lips, hot, trembling, needy.
He licked his own slowly, tasting the ghost of her already, eyes half lidded with dark satisfaction.
"Hmmm… baby,"
He purred, voice gravel and sin.
"Talk to me. Use that pretty, sweet little mouth and tell me exactly where you want my lips."
"My lips."
The words came out small, angelic, dripping with desperation.
Her fingers stayed knotted in the drawstring of his hoodie, tugging like she could pull him inside her soul.
He leaned in, slow, torturous, until his mouth hovered a heartbeat from hers.
Her lips parted instinctively, trembling, begging without words.
He whispered directly into the open seam of her mouth, his voice velvet-wrapped lightning, each syllable stroking her clit from the inside.
"Entice me, little moonlight. Seduce me into kissing those juicy, strawberry sweet lips. Beg for it. Use that sinful mouth to make me lose control. Tell me how badly you need my tongue sliding against yours, how you want me to devour every flavor you're hiding, strawberry, sin, surrender. Fucking beg."
Her lips parted wider, gasping, trembling, then closed again.
She knew what he wanted.
Knew he'd hold back until she gave it to him.
She swallowed hard.
Their mouths still touched, barely, her tongue darting out just enough to graze his lower lip in a fleeting, electric lick.
He smirked, slow and vicious, his hands tightening on the counter at her sides until his knuckles turned white.
Fuck.
His wife was going to be the death of him.
Every tiny gasp, every shiver, every helpless flutter of her lashes dropped him to his knees.
She was his damnation and his resurrection in the same breath, a starving, sinful man on the edge of hell, begging for the only light that could burn him alive and still bring him back.
She was his moon.
His heaven.
His reason to keep breathing when everything else screamed to stop.
"I… want…"
Her voice cracked, angelic and filthy all at once.
"…your seductive… mind wrecking… sweet… pink… devastating… ruinous… lips… on mine… please… Kace… I want it fucking now."
The plea shattered him, small, broken, dripping with raw want.
Every shiver rolling through her body screamed for his mouth.
She was parched for him.
Thirsty to be consumed.
Ruined.
Whole.
He stared, eyes darkened with dangerous, psychotic lust.
Her words undid him in ways no blade ever could.
"Little moonlight… fuck… you're killing me."
A guttural, erotic moan tore from his throat, raw, animal.
Then their mouths crashed.
Her hand slipped from his hoodie drawstring, falling to the counter beside his, fingers brushing, it was electrifying.
His thick, straining cock pressed against her bare, dripping cunt through the fabric of his pants, hot and insistent, grinding slowly and deliberately as she moaned into his mouth.
Tongues collided, wet, hungry swords clashing for dominance neither wanted to win, lips bruised, teeth scraping.
He kissed her like she was oxygen, sucking her lower lip between his teeth, tasting every sweet, strawberry sin flavor like it was the last thing he'd ever devour.
She was his redemption.
His peace.
His life.
His death.
He'd die on her tongue happily if she asked in that hypnotizing, angelic voice.
Only him.
Only ever him.
She could be sassy, rude, bold, facing the world head on with sharp words and zero fear.
But this, this soft, crimson, trembling surrender, was his alone.
No one else would ever see her like this, needy, submissive, unraveling under his hands and mouth.
The mask she wore for business parties, for strangers, fake smiles, guarded eyes, meant nothing here.
Everything has a limit. And when she finally lets those buried shadows slip free, it won't be gentle or amusing. It will command attention, devour restraint, and leave anyone in its path trembling.
With him, the limit dissolved.
"Fuck… baby… your sweetness is killing me…"
He groaned the words straight into her mouth, erotic, reverent.
"I want to drown in it. Die in it. Fuck, little moonlight… only you. Only fucking you."
Her voice came out harsh, frightened, fierce, muffled against his lips.
"Fuck… don't die on my lips."
She glared, emerald eyes flashing death even through the haze of lust.
He loved it—loved those pretty, perfect orbs: round, sassy, lethal.
Call him psychotic, he was.
He loved when she looked at him like she could murder him and still crawl back for more.
Those eyes were weapons, pure allure, pure perfection.
And in that suspended second: mouths fused, bodies pressed, her slick dripping down her thighs and his cock throbbing against her bare heat. He knew.
She was his end.
His beginning.
His everything.
And he'd burn the world to ash just to keep her glaring at him like that forever.