He grabs my ankle and flips me onto my stomach in one forceful motion. My cheek presses into the mattress as I try to push up, but his weight and grip keep me in place.
The dresser drawer slams open.
The duct tape tears loudly through the room as he yanks it free.
He grabs my wrists and drags my arms behind my back. I twist, trying to pull free, but he forces them together and wraps the tape tight around them, once, twice, pulling it snug until my shoulders strain and my fingers flex uselessly. The tape bites into my skin.
He fists a hand in my hair, yanks my head up. He tears off another strip and presses it over my mouth, sealing the argument there, every word I still want to throw at him trapped under adhesive and heat. The tape bites at the corners of my lips when I try to spit a curse at him.
His hand grips the back of my neck for a second, holding me there. I feel him shift away just enough to unbuckle his belt. The metal clinks loud in thequiet room. He pulls the leather free and loops it around my throat, snug but not crushing, a solid band of pressure that keeps me perfectly aware of exactly how close his control is to snapping.
I feel the heat of him pressed against the backs of my thighs as he shoves my leggings the rest of the way down, leaving them tangled around one ankle. The air feels colder against my exposed skin, sharp against the heat already building under my nerves.
In the mirror across from the bed, I catch him behind me. His body is tight, muscles rigid, jaw locked, desire and rage tangled so completely I can’t tell the difference.
He pulls down his pants and grips himself. His dick is fully hard, thick and veined. The head is dark and swollen, a sheen of pre-cum already gathering at the tip. His fist closes around himself in one slow stroke, as if he is testing how much pressure he can take before he snaps.
His eyes meet mine in the reflection. He grips the belt and pulls me back slightly, arching my spine. My bound wrists strain behind me as he steps closer, his thighs pressing against mine. He lines himself up without hesitation.
Then he drives into me in one hard thrust.
My cry smothers against the tape.
He pulls out and slams back in, deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin loud in the room. His grip tightens on the belt, keeping my head tilted back, controlling the angle as he moves.
Each thrust is hard and unforgiving. The veins along his cock press against me, stretching me, filling me completely. My body jerks forward with every movement, wrists bound, mouth sealed, forced to take everything he gives.
The mirror reflects everything. His body driving into mine. The tension in his arms as he holds me in place. The belt tight in his fist. My back bowed, legs trembling, breath breaking uselessly behind the tape. Our clothes hang twisted and half stripped, fabric clinging to overheated skin.
It's raw. It's brutal.
It is exactly what we both needed.
I watch it all in the mirror, every filthy detail laid out in front of me. The brutal snap of his hips. The way my spine bows each time he drives into me. The way my breasts bounce with the force. The way the duct tape seals overmy mouth, pushing my sounds back into my throat until they spill out as frantic, muffled cries I can't control. Tears blur my vision. My hair clings to my face. Sweat coats my skin. I look wrecked, used, and undone.
His eyes stay locked on my reflection, tracking every shift in my expression. The tightening in my jaw. The tremor in my thighs. The way my body tightens each time he hits deeper. He watches me come apart under him, piece by piece, reaction by reaction, as if he is cataloguing my undoing.
“You wanted me to prove it,” he pants, voice thick and low as he drives in again, harder, forcing another sound out of me against the tape. “Now I’m showing you who the fuck I am.”
Heat floods through me, anger tangled with humiliation, tangled with something hotter that I can’t stop. I hold his gaze through the mirror. My glare dares him to push further.
My body tightens around him, clenches hard, despite everything I try to hold back. I feel the pulse of it grip him. I see the moment he feels it. His jaw locks. His breath cuts off. A rough curse slips from him before he can swallow it.
His rhythm breaks, then turns rougher.
“Fuck,” he growls, thrusting harder, deeper, chasing the reaction he just pulled out of me, chasing the way my body keeps giving him more.
He moves like he needs this, like he needs me undone and shaking and unable to think of anything except him.
My climax hits fast and violently, stealing my breath in one rush that leaves me shaking. I scream into the duct tape, the sound trapped and broken in my throat, my body locking as the release tears through me. My legs shake under the force. My muscles seize. Pleasure crashes through me in waves that blur my vision and bow my spine until I feel like I’m going to snap.
He keeps driving into me, relentless and focused, fucking me through the aftermath like he needs to force me past every limit I thought I had. He moves with a need that feels dangerous, a need that tells me he is trying to outrun something inside his head. Using me is the only way he holds himself together, and I take everything he gives because it keeps him here.
I take every thrust. I take every drag of sensation. I take every second that lasts longer than I can handle. Even while I shake and gasp and fall apart,I know he is watching. He knows what he is doing to me. He knows how completely he owns every part of me.
Only when my legs start to tremble uncontrollably, oversensitive and wrung out, does he pull out.
I gasp against the duct tape, spit collecting at the seam over my lips, my chest rising and falling in harsh drags of air. My body feels dazed, twitching with aftershocks.
