Évariste kept the marble rolling pin moving in hard, steady thrusts, the thick shaft stretching Séraphine open on every stroke.
Oil and her own slickness coated the cool stone; each withdrawal pulled a wet sound from her that echoed off the kitchen tiles.
Her wrists remained bound high to the cupboard handle, body stretched, heavy breasts still bearing the vivid red prints of his earlier slaps.
Batter and flour streaked her stomach and the soft upper curves of her thighs. Her legs trembled from the forced spread.
“Keep talking,” he ordered, voice low and controlled while the pin pistoned deeper. “The contingency budgets, The change-order channels…every detail.”
Séraphine’s breath broke on every thrust. The stretch was relentless; the blunt head of the rolling pin dragged against he
