Chapter 33: Beautiful Scar: Chapter 33

Tigran snaps the handcuff closed as he brushes his lips against my throat. “Too tight?” he whispers softly, one hand patting my ass.

“Maybe a little,” I complain.

“Too fucking bad.” He spanks me roughly, ruthlessly. Which makes me moan and grin, since that’s what I was going for.

It’s been a week since my visit back home.

In that time, I left my suite every day, cooked dinner for my ravenous husband every evening, went to the grocery store once surrounded by half a dozen scary men who would gladly die for me, and had wild, carefree sex before bed each night, also with my ravenous husband.

Confronting my father has been extremely good for my self-esteem.

“Now, baby, lift your hips,” Tigran commands. He stands beside the bed looking at me with burning eyes. He’s naked, his body covered only in intricate ink.

“What if I refuse?” I ask petulantly.

“Then I will be forced to punish you. Is that what you want tonight?”

“First of all, it’s three in the afternoon⁠—”

Thwack. His palm comes down hard on my butt. “Don’t correct me,” he rumbles.

I whine, flexing my legs. “And second of all, I’m the one handcuffed to the bed here. What I want doesn’t really come into it, right?”

Although I can safeword out of this scenario at any time, and there’s a key attached to the post within reach in case of emergencies.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” He smirks as he bends over me. His fingers rub down my back, sending aching shivers along my spine. The man is so good with those dangerous, callused hands. I’m starting to feel pretty darn great when he spanks me again, totally out of nowhere.

“What was that for?” I whine, glaring at him.

“You were enjoying it too much. What’s the point of pleasure without a little pain to make it that much sweeter?”

“I don’t know, pleasure’s kind of its own reward,” I grumble as he rubs my lower back.

“Oh, pleasure’s good, but it can always be better.” He helps me raise my hips into the air. I’m wearing only a black lacy thong. It might as well be tissue paper when he tears it off my skin.

“How’s that?” I ask, panting with desire now.

He runs a hand slowly between my legs, caressing my slit. “I can do this.” He pauses to roll a thumb along my clit. It feels so freaking good, but he’s barely touching it. “And I can do this.”

He spanks me again, and again, and when my ass must be bright pink with his palm print, he buries his fingers inside my aching pussy.

“Oh my god,” I moan, easing myself back against him as far as the cuffs will allow. “I think I’m starting to see what you mean.”

He chuckles darkly as his fingers do their work. I want to pray to the feet of whatever God made my husband’s gorgeous freaking fingers and gave him the ability to use them because it must be divine intervention.

I sure as hell see angels every time he touches my pussy.

“You need contrasts in life. Too much routine, too much boredom—” Another spanking. This time it’s followed by his wet fingers sliding into my mouth. I grunt and mumble as I suck my juices off him. “Too much of anything and you lose the sweetness. But a little contrast…”

He pops his fingers from my lips. I could suck on them forever. I worship his damn hands as he spanks me again, and this time, he gives me what I want and strokes my pussy with a steady rhythm.

“A little contrast makes you melt on my fucking fingers like the dirty little slut you are.”

God damn it. I gasp, arching against him, tugging at my restraints. But my husband knows his craft, and there’s no give in the silk cord that attaches the end of the cuff to the bedpost. I’m trapped face down with a hungry lion, and it’s the best thrill of my life.

He devours me. My hips are yanked up as he licks me from behind. The man calls me a filthy girl, but we both know the truth.

He’s the dirtiest man I’ve ever met in my life. He’s sin and lust, everything wet and perfect, all wrapped into a nice satin bow.

“More,” I beg as my climax builds. “Please, Tigran, I need more.”

“Call me your husband,” he orders, pulling back, palming my pussy like he owns it. “Say it, Dasha.”

“Husband. Husband. God, I’m all yours, but please, fuck me.”

He laughs again. The bastard loves this part. He gets me all riled up and at my absolute wit’s end, and he makes his little demands.

“Tell me you love my cock above all others,” he whispers.

I turn my face, cheeks burning. I watch him slowly fist himself from bottom to top, milking out a bead of clear precum.

“I love it more than anything I’ve ever seen in my life,” I whisper, holding out my tongue for him.

He guides his tip to me. I lick him, sucking him down, tasting him and needing more.

“Greedy little slut,” he croons as I try to take him into my mouth, but he doesn’t let me. Instead, he reaches to my pussy again, stroking me slowly. “You want my cock, baby?”

“Please,” I moan, edged beyond belief.

Honestly, at this point, it’s torture.

The best kind imaginable.

“And you’ll suck my cock while my fingers fill you up?”

“Yes,” I moan. “I want it.”

He guides himself into my mouth. I whimper as I take him while his fingers slide into my pussy. Pleasure hits me mixed with the thickness of his hard dick between my lips. I’m sloppy, choking as I try my best to suck, moaning and whimpering the whole time while he finger-fucks me.

I’m beyond filled. Every inch of me has him. I love this feeling: wrists bound, ass stinging from his spanking, pussy filled by his fingers, mouth spread on his cock.

He’s right. I’m a dirty, bad girl, and there’s only one way to be good again.

It’s to give myself over.

It’s to embrace what I am and what I feel.

No more fear. No more worry.

There’s just me and him.

“That’s my girl,” he moans, fingers going faster. I suck and lick, spit drooling down his shaft. It’s wet and filthy. A damp spot forms under his heavy balls, and I don’t care. Let it get nasty. Let it be good. “You’re such a fucking bad girl. Look at you, so fucking messy and greedy, sucking my cock and letting me fuck you with my fingers. You want to come, don’t you? And you want to taste me while you do it? Or would you rather I fucked you into that sweet oblivion you’re always so desperate for?”

I pull back. “Fuck me,” I gasp, practically kicking my feet for him. Waves of pure pleasure build in my core. “Please, husband, fuck me.”

“Since you ask so nicely,” he purrs, smirking, and pulls away.

I gasp as he lifts my hips in the air. My face is pressed to the mattress. I feel his tip glide up and down my slit, but we both know he’s wet with my spit and I’m drenched with my desire. He’s massive, but he slides right inside.

Bliss hits me. That’s the stuff right there. I know I’ll never become an addict because drugs will never compare to this.

The smell of him. The taste of him still on my lips. His cock inside me, filling me, spreading me, dominating me. He leans over and kisses me, fisting my hair, and he fucks me like a savage.

It wrecks me. I can’t control myself. I nearly black out as my core builds. I’m seeing spots when I finally explode and shatter all over his big dick. I come to the symphony of his hips slapping against my ass and his sweet growls of lust in my ear.

“That’s right, baby, finish for me, nice and messy now,” he moans, his grip in my hair tightening. “I’m going to make you mine again, baby, every night of your life.” Then he releases, coming hard between my legs, his animalistic grunts like a soundtrack I’ll never get tired of hearing.

I collapse onto my belly, my arms stretched out above my head. Pleasure’s still beating between my legs. I shiver, skin flushed. A big dumb smile is on my face.

He lovingly pats my bruised and sore butt.

“Good girl,” he says, snuggling against me, before remembering to remove the cuffs.

I curl into him once I’m free. “You know, I was skeptical of the handcuffs at first,” I say, breathing in his smell and letting myself get sleepy and comfortable in his strong, warm arms.

“And now?”

“I can understand the appeal.”

“You really have come a long way, my wife.”

I smile like an idiot. I still like hearing him say that.

“Remember when I was a scared little virgin?”

“You mean a couple of months ago?”

“Well, I’m not scared of you anymore, and I’m definitely not a virgin.”

“I hope not. Otherwise, I’ve been doing this wrong the whole time.”

“I was just wondering, you know, if there were… other games… we could play.” I speak haltingly, a little afraid of what he might think about me.

But his grip only tightens. When I glance up, he’s smiling.

“You want to play some more?” he asks and leans down to kiss me. “You really have become such a good little slut for me.”

I shiver, grinning right back, and I’m about to straddle him when there’s a knock at the suite door.

Neither of us moves at first. But the knock comes again, which means it’s important. Otherwise, the guards know not to keep bothering us with something that isn’t urgent.

Tigran sighs, but he gets out of bed and pulls on his clothes.

“This better be good,” he grumbles as he storms into the other room.

I remain naked on the bed. Let him deal with whatever problem just popped up. That’s the life of a man in the Brotherhood, especially the brother of the patron. He’s always putting out fires.

Usually with blood.

He returns to the room though, looking uncertain. “Dasha, you should get dressed.”

I sit up, instantly on alert. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know, but you need to come with me.”

Nervousness flits through my body. I hurry to pull on clothes. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”

“Better if we go see together.”

I hate when he does that, but Tigran’s clearly preoccupied. Once I’m decent, we follow Harry toward the front door. The guard’s limping still, but I notice he’s moving a little faster than usual.

More of the guards are gathered in the front foyer. They’re all armed and on high alert. The vibe is clearly tense.

“Tigran?” I ask uncertainly. I’m not afraid because I know he’d never bring me down here like this if we were really in trouble, but something’s up.

Instead of answering, he pulls the door open.

I gasp and step forward.

Evan’s standing on our front step. He grins at me and holds up a hand. “Hey, Dash,” he says, waving a little. Then he adjusts a rifle he has slung over a shoulder. “I brought gifts and a few friends.”

Behind him, standing around several large black trucks, are equally well-armed men in black combat gear, looking menacing.

“What is all this?” I ask, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Turns out, Dad’s a weak coward and couldn’t come through, so I took matters into my own hands.” Evan gestures to the men waiting behind him. His shit-eating grin is enormous as he addresses my husband. “Valentin Zeitsev sends his regards. We’re here to kill some Irishmen.”