Chapter 32

CESARE

All the blood has rushed from my head and has gone straight to my cock. The sight of Rosalind sweating and squirming has me so hard that the edges of my vision are going black.

I didn't sew her entire labia shut, only the labia minora. And I didn't touch her clitoral hood. The stitches will dissolve after a week, leaving her perfectly intact. But she'll think twice the next time she calls me a rapist.

Sliding my finger over her swollen clit, I flick my gaze to the monitors. They're beside the bondage table in case I get carried away and allow her to climax.

Her resting BP is usually well below the average of 120/80, but now it's reached 153/96, telling me she's past the excitement phases of the human sexual response cycle and veering toward the end of the plateau phase.

Based on her heart rate of 145 beats per minute, she's on the brink of orgasm. That, and the way her face contorts. She clenches her teeth and glares up at me with a mix of desperation and defiance.

The room temperature rises several degrees, matching the heat radiating from her delectable body. Tension crackles against my skin, electrifying and hot. Her need for release is palpable, like a vessel about to rupture.

I lean into her, my lips grazing her ear. "Whose pussy is this?"

"Mine."

The alarm I programmed into the monitor shrieks. I withdraw my finger and smirk. "Wrong answer, pet."

Rosalind shoots me a glower of such intense hatred that my balls draw up into my abdomen, and I nearly come in my pants.

"Gone limp already?" she asks through panting breaths.

I chuckle. "Reverse psychology won't work this time, pet. I know all your tricks."

Her eyes narrow, the fire in their hazel depths burning with malice. I release her nipple and step away from the table, giving her a moment to recover.

"What's the point of all this?" she asks, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, making those perfect tits quiver. "You're childish."

I smirk at the insult, already accustomed to her brand of bullshit. Rosalind isn't just a sexual masochist, she's a master of psychological warfare. She uses words as weapons, but her tactics only work once. I've never met anyone who completely holds my interest. The alarm continues to ring, telling me she's still dangerously close to climaxing. Any physical stimulation, even a slap, might push her over the edge.

My fingers twitch to touch her, but I curl my hands into fists.

"I hate you," she snarls.

"That's just stage one of Stockholm syndrome," I say with an approving nod. "You'll soon move into the next."

"You're insane." Her hysterical laugh goes straight to my cock.

"You'll grow to crave it. By the time I've finished with you, your pussy will purr for me."

She purses her lips, looking like she's gathering enough saliva to spit.

I clutch her cheeks. "Every time you spit at me, I will extract a tooth." When her eyes flash, I add, "Go on, test me. I double dare you."

Her blood pressure spikes. Only this time, I don't think it's out of arousal. I hold her stare as her pupils constrict to pinpoints, and she jerks her head to the side.

"Dirty little assassin likes to be threatened," I say with a chuckle.

"You're wrong," she snaps.

"Let me cool you down." I walk to the refrigerator at the end of the playroom, my back warming with the heat of her glare, open its ice box, and extract a cube.

By the time I return to her side, her blood pressure is down to 140/90. Still elevated, but likely due to the stress of not knowing what's about to happen.

I walk around to her spread legs and notice one of the stitches has already broken. My brow furrows. I should take better care of my pet.

After sliding on a pair of gloves, I wipe up her lubrication with gauze and dab at the stitches with an antiseptic solution. Rosalind flinches as the cold liquid makes contact with her skin, but she doesn't complain.

The blood vessels in her clit are engorged, turning it an intense shade of red. I rub the ice cube on her swollen bud, tracing its smooth contours. Rosalind tenses, her breath hitching. The therapeutic cooling should alleviate the burning heat of her desire and bring down her BP and heart rate out of the plateau phase.

The ice melts, dripping onto her labia, and her entire body quivers. When I blow a stream of air on her clit, she moans.

"That's one part of you that will always tell the truth," I murmur between her spread legs.

"It's just as deluded as you," she snaps, her hips jerking.

I grab her thigh. "Stop squirming. You'll aggravate your stitches."

"Whose fault would that be, asshole? I didn't ask you to sew up my labia."

Picking up a lighter, I flick its flint wheel and ignite a few sparks before bringing up a flame. "If you can't stay still like a good pet, then I'll have to cauterize your cunt."

Her blood pressure spikes, and she sucks in a sharp breath. "You wouldn't."

I hold the flame to her inner thigh, making it quiver. "What do you think?"

"You're disturbed."

"Careful now," I say, my voice laced with authority. "You can act as cold as you want, but your body wants to surrender."

"Oh, and I suppose if you tickle me and I laugh, that means I find you funny? Get real," she says through panting breaths.

I place the ice cube on the dish, pick up a candle, and light its wick. Its glow fills the room, casting a warm glow on Rosalind's porcelain skin. Holding the candle a foot above her inner thigh, I drip wax onto her skin.

Each droplet lands on her flesh with a soft splash, creating a pool of heat that makes her legs jerk. I move the candle closer to her pussy, letting the wax continue to drip.

Her body tenses. Her breath comes in ragged gasps. Her clit seems to expand in anticipation of the impending heat, so I cool it down with the ice.

"Fuck," she groans. "What is wrong with you, Cesare Montesano? I already told you everything I know."

"You've exhausted your usefulness as an informant," I say, my breath quickening. "The only reason I'm keeping you alive is because you make such an interesting pet."

Her hips buck, bringing the wax even closer to her pussy, and she moans. "Don't you have anything better to do, like selling drugs?"

"You're the only narcotic I need. You and the way you squirm under my touch."

She raises her head, pulling the restraint over her brow taut. "If I ever get control of that candle, I'm going to stick it up your ass."

Chuckling, I drizzle wax to her outer lips. "All you need to do is ask."

"Isn't this supposed to be an interrogation? Ask me a fucking question. Want to know what happened between me and Leroi? I'll answer."

"No thanks," I lie with a smirk. "But you can tell me how you became an assassin."

"A-Alright," she says. "But you have to let me come."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's hard."

Snickering, I blow out the candle and set it on the tray. When I pick up a small vibrator and twist its dial, its motor hums to life.

"No," she says.

My brows pinch. "No, what?"

"If you're going to make me come, use your fucking tongue."