Page 199 of Somno Slave

He pushes in. There’s no warning, no gentleness. One brutal, sharp thrust and he forces himself inside me all at once.

The scream tears out of me before I can stop it. It hurts—blinding, splitting, too much pressure, too much stretch, my body trying to decide whether to fight or melt around him. My fingers claw uselessly at the sheets.

“Oh God—”

He doesn’t stop. He gives me no time to adjust, no pause to breathe through it. He drives deeper, harder, like he’s punishing me for making him wait, and every movement punches the air from my lungs.

Pain sparks white-hot through me, but underneath it—worse—pleasure rises with it. Sharp. Electric. Filthy.

I hate it.

I hate the sound I make when my body starts wanting it.

He pounds into me again and again, each thrust dragging something ruined out of me, until I can’t separate pain from pleasure, fear from need. My whole body is trembling beneath him.

Then his hand snakes around. His fingers find my clit. I know immediately I’m finished.

“No—” I gasp, because it’s too much, because I’m already there, because I know I have no choice.

“Yes.” He rubs once.

I break.

Pleasure detonates through me so violently I can’t even understand it at first. My back arches, a cry ripping from my throat, my whole body clenching helplessly around him as the orgasm tears through me, hard and humiliating and completely out of my control.

He holds me through it, forces me to feel every second, every shaking aftershock.

And the worst part, the truly unforgivable part, is that somewhere inside it, I swear I feel him smile.

His hand tightens around my hip hard enough to bruise, fingers biting into skin, and every movement after that loses whatever control he’d been pretending to have. It turns sharp, punishing. Each thrust feels like accusation, like he’s trying to force something out of me I haven’t said yet.

I’m shaking beneath him, clutching uselessly at the sheets, my body no longer mine.

He finishes like violence. His whole body locks, a rough sound torn from him, and he holds me there through it.

For a few seconds, neither of us moves.

My breathing is wrecked. My skin feels too tight. My thoughts are somewhere far away, useless and flickering.

Then he pulls away. There’s no warning, just absence.

The loss of him is so immediate it feels like being dropped. Cold air rushes over overheated skin. I barely have time to breathe before his hand is on me again, turning me over onto my back like I’m something to be inspected.

I flinch.

He stands there for a moment, looking down at me. Really looking. Hair ruined. Mouth swollen. Skin marked. Every humiliating trace of what he’s done laid open under the low light of the room.

His gaze drags slowly over me, clinical and cruel, like he’s admiring damage. Something shifts behind his eyes after a second, something colder, and he finally looks away.

“Tomorrow, when they inject me with poison,” he murmurs. “Remember what I did to you tonight.”

I choke.

It’s a violent reminder of what’s happening.

What I can’t stop.

My throat tightens. He steps back, collecting himself with the same cold ease that makes me hate him most, like he hasn’t just pulled me apart with his bare hands. I stay exactly where I am. Barely breathing, unable to move. At the door, he pauses. I don’t ask him to stay. I think that might be worse.