I should’ve felt afraid, but all I felt was raw relief.
I tried to clutch at his shoulders, at anything, but he forced my hands above my head again, pinning me in place so I couldn’t do anything but take it.
“Caiden,” I gasped.
He laughed, but it was cold, cruel. “You’re so fucking wet for me, Amelia, you want me to fuck you or you want me to tease you until you break?”
I could barely breathe. “I want you. Please.”
My back arched, wordless, desperate, a groan twisting from my throat. It hurt. It felt so fucking good. The friction of his palm, the thrust of his fingers, building and building, merciless.
He withdrew his fingers, leaving me shuddering, oversensitive. He licked the taste of me from his hand, savoring it. “I used to call you a freak, you know that? But look at you. God, you’re perfect.”
He lined himself over me, heavy, cock pressing hungry against my entrance. I was panting, frantic, reaching for him,but he slammed my wrists back above my head and held them with one hand, careless, dominant, like it was nothing.
His cock pushed inside, thick, brutal, inexorable. I moaned, legs flying up, thighs trembling as he powered in, filling me to the hilt. No mercy. I clenched, stretching around him, so fucking full I thought I’d die.
He set a rhythm, relentless, driving, fucking me into the thin motel mattress so every thrust made the headboard rattle.
I was lost, gone, world reduced to his cock, his hands, the way he bit and marked every tender inch of me. His palm wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, controlling, owning. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, fuck, please…”
He snapped his hips faster.
I wanted to consume him, to erase the history that kept us orbiting each other like binary stars, always close enough to feel the heat, never close enough to merge.
I let him split me open, let him memorize the shape of my want, let him see the bad and the holy inside me.
We didn’t speak, because words would have shattered the rawness. Instead, we talked in gasps and whimpers, in the slap of skin on skin.
I’d spent most of my life afraid to need anything, least of all a person like Caiden, a person who burned so hot and mean it sometimes felt like being consumed alive.
I felt myself unraveling, the ache doubling back on itself, as if my body had been waiting years for this precise brutality, for the privilege of being broken and remade by his hands.
I clawed at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, and he rewarded me with a low, guttural sound that made me want to shatter all over again.
He seemed to live for it, the way I broke for him, the way he could take what he wanted and still pull me back from the dark at the last second.
He kept his promises: he made me his.
“Harder,” I gasped, and he gave it to me, slamming into me with a tempo that was as much violence as it was devotion.
He pinned my wrists above my head, hands so big and rough it bruised, but the thrill of it, the helplessness, was like a drug.
I bucked under him, wanting every inch, every ounce of the furious love he could give.
He shifted onto his knees, his hands rough and possessive as they gripped my hips, lifting me just enough to drive his cock deeper, angling it in a way that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The head of his dick brushed against that spot inside me, the one that made my vision blur and my thighs tremble.
He didn’t let up, hitting it again and again, each thrust harder than the last, until the sensation was a wildfire. Pain and pleasure tangled together in a way that felt divine and obscene.
My breath left me in a cry, ragged and desperate, and I swear I could feel the heat of his need boiling over, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge.
“Fuck, Amelia, you feel so good,” he groaned, his voice cracking, raw and broken.
He drove into me harder, losing the careful cadence, letting himself get ragged and rough.
