All Chapters of MAKE ME SCREAM: Chapter 101 - Chapter 109

The authority in his voice pins me to the spot. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just absolute, the voice of a man who built a construction company from nothing, who commands sixty men on a job site, who has never once in his life been disobeyed and doesn’t plan to start now.“I need to go—”“It’s raining.”I look at the window. He’s right. Not drizzle, a full assault, rain hammering the glass so hard the backyard is a blur. The kind of downpour that floods roads in minutes. The kind that trapped me at this house once before, three months ago, when Ryan fell asleep on the couch and Dominic and I sat in the kitchen drinking whiskey until 2 AM and his knee touched mine under the table and neither of us moved it.“I’ll drive in the rain—”“In your boyfriend’s car? The one he took to CVS?” He hasn’t moved from the doorway. His eyes haven’t left mine. “Sit down, Aria.”My name in his mouth. That accent wrapping around the vowels. My clit throbs so hard I press my thighs together and I know he see

He soothes it with his tongue. Then moves to the right. Same treatment — sucking until it’s swollen and throbbing, then biting until I cry out, then soothing with slow, wet laps. Both nipples are dark red, wet with his spit, aching.His hand slides between my legs on the counter. Two thick fingers push inside me without warning and the stretch, his fingers are so much thicker than mine, thick and calloused and rough inside me, makes me grab his shoulders and moan against his neck.“Oh my GOD, your fingers, they’re so, ohh—”“Tight,” he breathes against my bitten nipple. “So tight and wet. My son has this and doesn’t know what to do with it.” He curls his fingers against my g-spot, firm, practiced, the rough pads of his fingers catching on the textured spot, and my thighs slam shut around his hand.He forces them open. Pins my knees apart with his forearms while his fingers pump inside me, deep, curling strokes that hit my g-spot on every pass. The wet sounds are obscene, squelch, sque

“Every time you lay in bed wishing someone would touch you like you deserve.” His finger traces the top of my mound. Just above my clit. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his fingertip without contact. “Tell me while I touch you. I want to hear it.”“He, oh please just touch my clit, he never goes down on me—”Dominic’s tongue touches my clit.The sound I make is inhuman. A wailing, broken moan that fills the basement as his tongue, hot, flat, expert, drags over my swollen bud in one slow, devastating stroke. He licks me from bottom to top, his tongue collecting every drop of wetness, and the flavor makes him groan against me.“OH, oh my god, your MOUTH, oh FUCK—”“Keep talking,” he says against my pussy, lips brushing my clit with every word. “What else doesn’t he do?”“He, ahh, he never, uses his fingers properly, he just— oh god right there, pokes at me like he’s, mmm, typing—”Two fingers push inside me. Not poking. Not jabbing. Curling, a slow, deliberate press against my

My back hits the padded X-frame and he lifts my arms.The cuffs at the top secure my wrists, arms spread wide, elevated, my tits lifting with the stretch. Then my ankles, spread, locked, my pussy exposed and dripping his cum in a slow, steady stream down my inner thigh. I’m pinned to the wall like a specimen. Spread open. His cum running from me. The clamps still biting my nipples.He stands back. Looks at me. The amber light catches the mess between my legs, slick, white, glistening.“Beautiful,” he says. And the sincerity in it makes my chest ache.He opens the glass cabinet. Selects a leather flogger, soft-looking, with dozens of thin tails, and a wand vibrator, the kind with a round head and a long handle.“This,” he says, holding up the flogger, “is for warmth.” He lets the tails trail across my stomach. Soft. Barely there. Then he flicks his wrist and they snap against my breast.“AHH!”Not hard. Not cruel. A sharp, stinging kiss across the top of my breast that blooms into heat

The argument starts before we even board.“You’re not serious.” I’m standing on the dock in Miami heat, sunglasses pushed up, staring at Jace Calloway like he just told me the ocean is dry. “One room. You booked one room.”“Two rooms.” He doesn’t look at me. He’s scanning his phone, duffel slung over one shoulder, olive green, military-issue, because everything Jace owns is military-issue, including his personality. Six-two of disciplined muscle in a fitted black t-shirt and cargo shorts, jaw set, buzzcut growing out just enough to show that his hair is dark and thick, tattoo sleeve covering his left arm from shoulder to wrist, unit insignia, coordinates, something in Arabic he won’t explain. Twenty-eight years old. Nine years older than me. My stepbrother for three years, my enemy for four, since before our parents even married, since the first Thanksgiving he showed up at and told me my opinion on foreign policy was “adorable.”I’ve hated Jace Calloway since I was fifteen years old.