Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions

Now

"What do they say about sinners, darling?" Rome inquired, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes lingering over every exposed inch of my body with an intensity that left me trembling.

"Rome... please," I pleaded, my voice thick with emotion, as I instinctively tried to shield myself. How had we arrived at this place again? What had changed him, and why had he chosen me once more?

Here I stood, vulnerable, in his den-a place only he called our sanctuary, where my submission to him had thrived admits my love for him, now tainted with its absence. What had once been sacred was now hollow, stripped of its warmth.

Rome sighed, rubbing his temple in frustration. His posture, though commanding, betrayed a certain level of respect for the space between us. He licked his lips, and as he stood, his presence grew even more imposing.

I shivered, not from the chill in the air but from the heat of him. The temperature in the room was perfect, yet Rome himself ignited a fire within me-one that brought both pleasure and pain. His touch, his very being, felt like an enigma. Why would a man return to his former lover, offer her help, and then demand something in return that I was unwilling to give? Where had I gone wrong in seeking his aid?

"Sweetheart, what do they say about sinners?" he asked once more, his patience thinning with each passing second. I could feel the shift in his tone; it no longer held tenderness, only expectation.

"They go to hell," I answered, my voice breaking under the weight of my sobs. I knew all too well what was to come. The familiar sense of dread gripped me, though a part of me anticipated it. It was a cruel cycle-one that I had come to understand all too well.

Rome chuckled darkly. "Yes, darling, they do. And who do they meet there?"

I felt my words catch in my throat, but I forced them out. "They... they meet the devil," I stammered, the tears flowing freely now.

"And where are you right now, Layla?" he asked, his voice laced with a menacing calm as he approached, holding the familiar cuffs-the same ones I had once hoped would never touch me again.

The air in the room seemed to freeze as his hand traced the dried tears on my face, his eyes a mixture of longing and fury. I saw in him not the man I once knew, but the one I had feared-my savior and my tormentor.

"Hell," I whispered, my voice barely audible, as his fingers gripped my bare flesh. Rome no longer resembled the man I had once loved; he had become something else entirely-something darker.

Without a word, he hoisted me over his shoulder, tossing me effortlessly onto the bed. His eyes sparkled with a predatory gleam as he surveyed me, like a lion preparing to pounce on its prey.

"Oh, Layla," he murmured, his voice thick with frustration, "why must you be so stubborn? Why must I always punish you? Can't you simply do as you're told?"

His lips pressed gently against my thighs, leaving a trail of soft kisses that bordered on torture. Each kiss, though tender, served as a reminder of the twisted dynamic between us.