Angel Breaker – Dark Romance (Angel Prison #1) Read Online Loki Renard

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Angel Prison Series by Loki Renard
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Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 40901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
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She watches me, saying little, and refusing nothing as I draw the tip of the toy down her belly, over the golden furred plain of her pubis and let the pink silicone find the channel of her lips, and then the interior of her body.

She tightens the muscles of her belly and lets out a little hiss as I slide it inside her. There is no resistance. She is soaked. I could drive something much larger than this inside her and she would welcome it, I am certain.

Katie is highly adaptive. Willing to fuck an enemy, not because she is a slut, but because she has needs, and no matter how dire her circumstances or how bleak her outlook, she knows that satisfying those needs will ultimately strengthen her. I am not stupid enough to mistake her willing wetness for any kind of fondness. She hates me with every bit of her being, as well she should.

I press the dildo as deep as it will go into her cunt, stretching her around the silicone thickness that will not quite satisfy, but she will not be able to forget. The flared base then snaps into a harness that I slide up around her hips and waist. A sort of chastity belt for a filthy little angel.

“And to make sure you don’t play with yourself…” I say, turning her over onto her stomach, where I finish by cuffing her hands together behind her back.

She lets out a throaty laugh of despair against my black silk sheets. Captured this way, she almost seems pure by comparison to the cruelty around her. The cage, the cuffs, the harness keeping her pussy filled.

I wait for her to throw another one of her sassy comments my way, to undermine the intensity of the moment. But the only sounds she is making are ones of incoherent response to her new predicament.

She cannot relieve herself of the sexual need that is perfuming the air between us. She won’t come. Not now. Not later. Not until I see fit. I don’t state that out loud either. I don’t need to. Actions are speaking louder than words for both of us.

Katya

He grips me by the hair and guides me into the cage beside his bed. I am not to be accorded the kindness of clothes, it seems. Or even the traditional ravaging a conqueror provides his captive. I figured I would at least get laid. But no. I am now confined again with no way out, and no ability to give myself what I need.

He’s a bastard.

But he doesn’t decide when I come. He doesn’t get to decide fucking anything. I make eye contact with his smirking visage, and I press my pubic mound against the bars of the cage and rock my hips back and forth in a humping motion. His desire to deny me pleasure has only made me more motivated to obtain it.

His brows rise as he watches me. I have seduced him before. The first time we met all it took was a look and he was ready to fall at my feet. The intervening years have toughened his exterior, but I am willing to bet he is still a sucker for sex.

He cannot, will not, make me feel shame. There is nothing shameful about getting what I want, and what I need. I want to come. I want release. He can watch, like the filthy voyeur he is. It is proper that a human should stand in awe of a creature of the heavens.

This is not pleasure as I deserve it. This is not the carnal worship I have enjoyed in the past. This is twisted, and dark, and wrong. This is a different kind of pleasure, and I think I like it. It’s a rebellious pleasure, an orgasm of protest. He has incarcerated me for weeks, he has seen me fall from the sky in agony. He has saved me, somehow, against all possibility. And now I am performing for him. In spite of him. I am giving myself pleasure and I am letting him see it.

He does not stop me. He does not say a word. He just watches as I rut myself to completion against the bars. The toy inside me is not the same as man’s cock. It is not as hard. It is not as large. It does not have the desperate intention of a man. It shifts inside me, playing with me, approximating some perverse notion of what it is to be filled.

Orgasm is coming. Heat flushes my face, my breath comes in short gasps. My breasts are pressed against the bars too, cold lines rubbing against my nipples and my belly, and of course, between my thighs. I come with a short cry of triumph, orgasm rushing through me in a short, sharp crescendo.


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