Clara’s POV
“You’re dripping, Clara,” he said, voice low, unhurried. “And I haven’t even touched your cunt yet.”
My hands balled into fists behind my back, bound tight in silk. My breathing was getting shallower, but I refused to show it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snapped.
He laughed, low and sharp. “I don’t need to.”
A moment later, something hot and wet traced a slow, maddening line up the inside of my thigh. My breath hitched. My knees wobbled.
Then his mouth closed over my c**t without warning—hot, rough, and deliberate.
I screamed.
It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t pleasure.
It was the fact that he did it so well.
His tongue licked me with slow, devastating strokes—teasing circles, then sharp flicks. My body betrayed me with every moan I swallowed, every twitch I couldn’t control.
