Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 102901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
How perfect she was going to look.
His anger dipped as he walked over and, in his head, saw her captured image. The candles would be lit, a rose would sit in the vase. She would be so beautiful in death.
But the image was distorted when tears fell from her eyes and down her cheeks, ruining the imagined picture. Her bottom lip trembled and her skin drained of color. “No,” he hissed, fists clenching. “No!”
Raphael stormed from the room and raced into the bathroom. He threw off his clothes and stared at himself in the mirror. His muscles were strained, and his traps were high from the tension flowing through his body. He fisted his cock over the cage and squeezed. His golden eyes were fixed on his reflection. But nothing was happening. He pulled and tugged and hit his balls. But nothing worked. No blood. No constriction. No pain. He couldn’t get hard without fucking pain!
Raphael turned the shower as high and as hot as it would go. Scalding water pelted his head, washing the taste of the trafficking bitch’s putrid pussy from his fingers and body. Then he stepped back, hair slicked over his forehead and face, and directed the red-hot water over his dick. He threw back his head and groaned as the water scalded his skin, but when he looked down, he wasn’t hard. He backed away from the shower and stumbled, dripping wet, along the tile floor.
What was fuck was happening?
Raphael curled his hands into fists and let his building rage loose. He swiped his arm along the top of his drawers, sending bottles and the mirror crashing to the ground. He yanked out the drawers, his clothes flying across the room and the wooden drawers smashing against the wall. He walked to the fireplace and threw his fist into the picture above it. He did it again, and again and again until his hand was bloodied and the plaster of the old wall underneath collapsed.
He didn’t hear Maria come up behind him. He didn’t see her watching him destroy his rooms. He didn’t even think of her until a gentle hand landed on his back. Raphael swung around, seeing nothing but death before him. Maria’s tear-stained face broke through his fog. “You,” he snarled darkly, and stalked toward her. Maria stumbled back, trying to get out of his path. But Raphael was in a fury, unhinged, one rush of anger from killing anyone who dared get in his way. Maria’s back hit a wall, and he crowded where she stood. “It’s your fault.” He squeezed his defective dick. Maria’s eyes moved down to his hand. “You cried,” he growled, slamming his hand against the wall above her head. “You were crying and said ‘red rose.’ Why were you fucking crying?”
Raphael stepped back and smacked his cock again, but nothing happened. His flesh wasn’t expanding and pressing against the cage. The agony he needed didn’t come. Raphael’s legs weakened, and he had to hold onto the bedpost to keep upright. He tried to breathe, to keep his composure. But this was who he was. He killed and he fucked. He fucked and he killed. They were synonymous to him. One didn’t exist without the other. He pictured hands around necks and scratches on his skin. Pain. Always pain. It had always been pain. The whips . . . the lashes . . . being held down and—
Raphael’s head snapped back as a burst of pleasure shot through his body like a bullet to his heart. He sucked in a quick breath and felt his cock spring to life and push against the silicone cage. Raphael’s hands dug into the wood of the bedpost . . . and he looked down.
“Maria . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice cut like shattered shards of glass. Raphael’s eyes grew leaden at the sight of Maria’s small, delicate hand holding his cock, the flesh swelling second by second. She didn’t move her hand. Just held his dick still as if it would burn her if she stroked it. As though feeling his eyes on her, Maria looked up, her gaze nervous and her skin pale. Her hand shook. But the familiar warmth that Raphael craved was ushering out the panic from his body. “Keep it there,” Raphael ordered as he gripped the bedpost tighter. Maria didn’t move her fingers, just let his cock fill its cage and her hand until the pain Raphael needed began pulsing in his groin, bolts of lightning splintering up his spine.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, but when the strength returned to his legs, he sat back on the edge of the mattress. Maria went to move her hand, but Raphael reached out and kept it in place on him. He spread his legs and closed his eyes. Maria’s touch was warm—the perfect contradiction to the constrictive pain of the cage.