He towered behind me, already hard again. He shook his head.
I watched his face, waiting for the triumph and the cruel smile. Nothing of the sort came. His expression stilled as his eyes slowly took in my back. Maybe he had forgotten the scars there. The slashes had all healed over the years since we had been freed from our prison, but the scars would remain. My soul carried so many more. I could only imagine what Nestore’s innermost being looked like.
Silence covered us like a heavy drape.
His eyes remained the harsh pools of hatred. I hadn’t expected pity from him. He wasn’t capable of it. His fingers clasped my hips, and he slid forward, slower than expected.
He pushed through the last shreds of my innocence. My body yielded to him. I shivered under the pain and fullness, but held Nestore’s gaze. He paused. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he plunge into me hard and fast, without mercy?
Or maybe this time the wait was my punishment, not the pain.
One of his hands moved up my side, and he cupped my breast. His thumb and forefinger began rubbing my nipple. “What—”
Nestore’s other hand closed loosely around my throat, holding me in place. “Shhh, Amelia. Not a word.”
He watched me intently as he rubbed my nipple. The little nub looked tiny in his strong fingers, and despite the pain between my legs, the sight of Nestore twisting my nipple with his scarred hand did something to me. A slight tingle filled my core. I traced Nestore’s broad shoulders with my eyes, then his curved lips. Lips that had given me so much pleasure.
Nestore was still rock hard inside me. With every tug of his fingers, my walls seemed to soften around him. I relaxed, focused on my attraction to the man behind me.
Nestore was achingly beautiful. A cruel, dark prince who only smiled when he could break his broken princess.
Eventually, my body relaxed under the ministrations. When my walls softened, Nestore released my nipple and began to move inside me. He was slow, almost gentle. I watched him in the reflection of the mirror, the flashes of pleasure on his face, the way he glared at my back. His hands brushed the scars there almost lovingly before he slid them below me to cup my breasts again. He looked up, and our eyes met in the mirror. For a moment, he looked at me like he had before I ran. My heart ached. I wanted him to forgive me.
His eyes turned cold. He bared his teeth and slid his hand down my body until he cupped my sex. “I’m not your slave,” he growled.
I licked my lips, and his eyes darkened. He looked almost dazed—and angry.
His fingers stroked over my clit, and it answered to his ministrations with jolts of pleasure. My body sprang to life as if it had been starved too long. His other hand cupped my throat as he circled my clit. I moaned, a deep, needy sound that reverberated against his fingers. Despite my soreness, my core pulsated with every stroke of his fingers. I needed this. I needed him, no matter how twisted all of this was.
Maybe we were both damaged beyond repair.
Arousal slickened my opening, turning the ache of overfullness into a need for more. I pushed my hips back so Nestore’s slid even deeper into me. My eyes rolled back as he hit a sweet spot that made all the pain disappear.
Nestore’s fingers around my throat flexed as he released a low growl. His finger slid down from my clit, making me whimper with need, followed by a low moan when his finger joined his cock inside me.
“I dreamed about this, about filling you with my cock for so long. Your pussy was made only for me. It was made to take my cock, to receive the pleasure and pain I can give.”
He pulled his finger out of me and brought it to my lips, parting them, so I tasted the salty bitterness of our coupling. I swiped my tongue around his finger, making his eyes close as pleasure twisted his features. He shook his head as if to free himself before he gripped my hip with his hand while the other remained on my throat. He slammed into me without warning, making me gasp. He lowered his head until his lips brushed my left shoulder almost lovingly, a gesture so very at odds with the ferocity of his claiming. He tossed his head back as if remembering himself.
There was so much hatred in his eyes. I clung to it, let it fuel my own, let it be my float in the raging ocean of my despair and confusion.
Every thrust burned through me, but soon my body numbed to the pain until only a deep throbbing of pleasure remained.
He shredded the last of my innocence with every vicious thrust. I wanted to hate him like I hated my father, as he hated me—wholeheartedly, unhesitatingly, absolutely. Yet every time I found myself teetering on the edge of this dark abyss, my eyes caught on Nestore’s disfigured chest, on the scar over his heart where a nipple should have been, and on the L branded into his skin.
Nestore knew pain. But so did I.
Amelia was a creature of utter beauty. Her pink lips almost drove me insane with the need to kiss them. I wanted to brush my mouth across her flushed cheeks, feel their heat and silkiness.
Her pulse raced against my palm as I cupped her throat. I was in control.
I wasn’t.
My body burst with desire for my wife, with the need to worship her, to make her scream my name in pleasure. I wantedher lust and love more than her despair and hatred. I was and would always be Amelia’s slave, but she couldn’t know.
I wanted her to need my cock and affection more than I needed her love and body.
I cast my gaze down, away from her gorgeous face, to preserve whatever control I had around her. I took in the way my thick cock parted her pink pussy lips, how it glistened with her lust. I eased all the way out of her until only my tip pressed up to her folds, then slammed forward. Amelia gasped, her eyes flaring wide, as her fingers scrambled for purchase on the smooth marble surface.
