The stairs creaked under my weight as I ascended from the basement, leaving Lila bound in the dim, concrete chamber below. My body still thrummed with the aftershocks of our encounter, her scent—floral, sharp, sinful—clinging to my skin like a second pulse. I'd never felt this alive, this hungry, not just for her body but for the power she'd awakened in me. The door at the top of the stairs opened into a hallway that stopped me cold. Polished marble floors stretched before me, reflecting the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, and sleek modern furniture sat in perfect arrangement, whispering wealth. This wasn't just a house—it was a goddamn mansion. Lila, the predator who lured men to their deaths, was apparently swimming in money.
I wandered through the sprawling first floor, my bare feet silent on the cool marble, searching for the kitchen. The place was a labyrinth of luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens, a grand piano in one room, and abstract art that probably cost more than I'd earn in a lifetime. Who was she? The thought gnawed at me, but so did my hunger—both for food and for her. I finally found the kitchen: a chef's dream with gleaming stainless steel appliances, a massive island, and a fridge that looked like it could house a small army's rations.
Opening the fridge, I was hit with a wave of possibilities. Fresh herbs, prime cuts of steak, exotic cheeses, and vegetables so vibrant they seemed plucked from a painting. I grabbed a couple of ribeyes, some garlic, rosemary, and a bottle of red wine from a rack nearby. Cooking had always been my quiet escape, a way to fill the lonely hours. Now, it felt like a ritual, a prelude to whatever twisted dance Lila and I were locked in. I seared the steaks on a cast-iron skillet, the sizzle and aroma filling the air as I mashed roasted garlic into butter and tossed asparagus in olive oil. The wine reduced into a glossy sauce, and I plated the meal with care—two servings, one for me, one for her.
Carrying the plates back to the basement, I descended into the dim glow. Lila sat where I'd left her, cuffed to the chair, her torn dress barely clinging to her curves. Her dark hair was mussed, framing her face like a fallen halo, and her eyes tracked me with a mix of wariness and curiosity. I set the plates on the workbench, the clink of porcelain sharp in the silence.
"Hungry?" I asked, pulling a chair close to her. She didn't answer, just stared, so I cut a piece of steak, spearing it with a fork. I held it to her lips, my fingers brushing her chin. "Open."
She hesitated, then parted her lips, letting me feed her. The act felt intimate, almost tender, despite the cuffs binding her wrists. Her tongue flicked out, catching a drop of sauce, and I felt that now-familiar heat coil in my gut. I fed her slowly—steak, asparagus, a sip of wine from a glass I held to her mouth—watching her chew, swallow, her throat moving under my gaze. When she was done, I ate my own meal, savoring the rich flavors but distracted by the way her breasts rose with each breath, the way her thighs pressed together under the tattered fabric.
Swallowing the last bite, I leaned back, wiping my hands. "This place," I said, gesturing vaguely upward. "It's a palace. Where'd all the money come from?"
Lila's lips tightened, but after a moment, she spoke, her voice low. "My grandparents. Old money, East Coast aristocracy. They died when I was a kid, left me everything—houses, accounts, more than I could ever spend. My father squandered his share before he walked out on us. Left Mom and me with nothing but this." She jerked her chin toward the ceiling, indicating the mansion. "I learned how to use it. How to hide. How to hunt."
Her words carried a weight—grief, anger, maybe shame. I saw a flicker of the girl she'd been, abandoned, forging herself into something sharp and deadly. I reached out, my hand cupping her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "That's why you do this? Because of him?"
She flinched but didn't pull away. "Don't pretend you care, Elias. You're no savior."
"Maybe not," I said softly, my touch lingering. "But I see you."
Her eyes softened for a fleeting second before hardening again. She straightened, tugging at the cuffs. "Elias, you had your fun. Now release me. And leave."
I laughed, a low, dark sound that surprised even me. "No way. I'm just starting." I stood, letting her see the bulge straining against my pants, my cock already hardening at the sight of her. "Look at this," I said, pointing. "I never got aroused before. Never. But after I met you, Lila, I'm hard every damn second. You're turning me on, and I can't leave."
She swallowed, her voice wavering. "But we just had sex a few minutes ago."
I stepped closer, my hand wrapping around her throat—not tight, just enough to feel her pulse race under my fingers. I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear as I whispered, "Let's go for another."
Her breath hitched, but I didn't wait for permission. I untied the ropes at her ankles, leaving the cuffs on her wrists, and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, and I caught her, pinning her against the workbench. My mouth crashed onto hers, a kiss that was all teeth and heat, swallowing her protests. I tore the rest of her dress away, leaving her naked except for the cuffs, her curvy body a vision of sin—full breasts bouncing, hips flaring, her skin flushed with defiance and desire.
I spun her around, bending her over the workbench again, her cuffed hands gripping the edge for balance. I grabbed another length of rope, looping it around her thighs to spread her wide, tying her in place. The BDSM urge surged, the sight of her bound and helpless fueling my need to dominate. My hand cracked against her ass, the sharp slap echoing as her flesh reddened. She moaned, low and guttural, her body arching despite her earlier pleas.
"Elias…" she gasped, but I didn't stop. I freed my cock, throbbing and heavy, and teased her entrance with the tip, feeling her wetness coat me. With one deep thrust, I buried myself inside her, groaning at the tight, hot grip of her walls. She cried out, her head tipping back, eyes rolling as I set a brutal pace. Each thrust was deep, relentless, my hips slamming into her, the workbench creaking under our weight.
"Fuck, Lila," I growled, squeezing her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh. I leaned over, biting her shoulder, marking her as mine. Her moans grew louder, desperate, as I reached around to pinch her nipples, twisting until she shuddered. "Cum for me," I demanded, and she did, her body convulsing, her walls clenching so tightly I nearly lost control.
But I wasn't done. I pulled out, flipping her onto her back, her cuffed wrists above her head. I tied another rope to secure her arms to a hook on the wall, stretching her body taut. Her breasts heaved, and I sucked one nipple hard, my teeth grazing as she writhed. I entered her again, this time slow, torturous, watching her face as I filled her inch by inch. Her eyes rolled back, lips parted in a silent scream as I picked up speed, thrusting deep, my hand wrapping lightly around her throat again. The power, the control—it was intoxicating.
She came again, screaming my name, her body shaking as her second orgasm tore through her. "Please, Elias," she whimpered, tears streaking her face. "No more…"
I ignored her, shifting her to her side, one leg lifted over my shoulder to hit a new angle. I fucked her harder, my thrusts punishing, each one driving her closer to another edge. Her moans became sobs of pleasure, her third climax leaving her limp, her body glistening with sweat. I finally let go, spilling inside her with a roar, my vision blurring as pleasure consumed me.
For two hours, we went on like this—position after position, her bound and yielding, me relentless in my need to claim her. When I finally collapsed, panting, I untied the ropes but left the cuffs, letting her slump against me. Her breaths were ragged, her body trembling from the intensity.
Then, softly, she spoke. "Elias, I need to go to the washroom."
I smiled, a lazy, possessive curve of my lips. "Let's go then."