Thump.
Thump.
“Hit me,” he breathes.
My jaw drops. “What?”
His unsettling eyes flash. “I said, fucking hit me, Della. Across the face. Backhand me.”
My head is already shaking of its own accord. “No.”
His hips start pumping, harsh and deep inside me. It hurts. He wants it to hurt. His hand wraps around my neck and squeezes, holding me still as he fucks up into me.
Every thrust is electric, tight, painful on purpose, forcing into me again and again, harder. Faster. I’m gripping his wrist, knowing in the back of my mind I can stop him if I want to, but I’m drowning with the desire to let him loose and see what he does.
He’s as naked as he was in the motel room last night, and it scares me again.
“Hit me,” he says through gritted teeth.
My jaw drops. His eyes flash like a thunderclap. We’re fucking against the headboard, slamming it into the wall. I can’t fight him. I don’t want to fight him.
“Jensen—”
“I said, fucking hit me, Della,” he says from between his teeth.
“I don’t understand,” I wail.
He’s fucking me so goddamn hard, vein standing out in his forehead. “Give me this.”
His voice breaks at the same time I do, and I backhand him across the face. The slap is a gunshot through the night and a jolt of pain through my wrist. He grits his jaw, breathing out from between his teeth. A crimson stain appears on his tanned skin.
Our gazes lock.
“Harder,” he demands.
Stunned, writhing on his cock as he slams it up into me, I obey, hitting him across the face a little harder. He takes a half second to recover, blinking, shaking his head like a dog. Then, his eyes lock back on mine, and he grips my hair, up by my scalp. Desire surges through me, pulling me down. I could have fucked a hundred men before I fucked him, but I know right now, nothing would compare to him.
He makes me feel everything after being dead inside for so long. He’s a dangerous drug, and I’m tying up my arm, injecting him into the most delicate parts of me without knowing what he’s made of.
“Hurt me,” I gasp out.
I don’t know where that came from. His pupils dilate, and he flips me onto my back, pressing me into the mattress. His hand encircles my throat, rough and broad.
I taste it—what he tasted, an edge that heightens everything.
“You hit my arm if you need it to stop,” he breathes.
I flutter my lashes, nodding as best I can. His fingers burn the sides of my throat. My hips rise, begging for him. He braces his knee and thrusts into me, hard enough that I cry out at the shock of pain and ecstasy.
My God, he’s big.
I need more of this, whatever it is. There’s no judgement with him. So I look him in the eyes, his hand tight on my throat, and wrap my legs around his waist to pull him in.
“Fuck, you’re a dirty whore,” he grits out.
My brain buzzes.
I like the thought of being a whore if I can be his.
