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I lean over her, touch my cheek to hers and listen to her intake of breath as I twirl my fingers around the hard, swollen nub.
“No?” I ask.
She closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to want this. Doesn’t want to want me.
“Do you want to come?” I run my fingers over her clit.
She moans, and a moment later, nods.
“Say it. Tell me.”
“Please.”
“Please what?” I straighten, slide my cock through her folds. “Please what, Isabelle?”
“Please…. I want…”
I keep two fingers on her clit and slip my cock to her entrance. It’s tight and I watch her tense as I begin to stretch her to accommodate me.
“Too much,” she starts, drawing away, but my fingers are on her clit again and she stills, arching her back deeper.
“Say it,” I demand, my voice hoarse with the need to thrust into virgin territory. To bleed her.
“Make me come!” she cries out and I reward her, turning my fingers over her clit and sliding my cock deeper. When I hear her choked intake of breath and feel her walls pulse around me, I dig the fingers of one hand into her hip and splay her wide. I drive into her, tearing through her barrier, relishing her cry when I do it, feeling the warm gush of blood as I bury myself to the hilt. I savor the tight feel of her as I close my thumb over her asshole and draw back, looking down at her as I do, as I see red staining my cock, her thighs, dropping to my sheets.
I drive in again and again, hearing her pants as I take her, as she buries her face in the sheets and comes around me again, walls pulsing.
My release is thunderous, racking my body, calling an animal sound from my chest and throat as I spill my seed inside her. The knowledge that she’s mine now, all mine, only mine more heady than I anticipate. So much more than I imagined.
When I draw out and she collapses beneath me, blood and come spill from her. The white sheets no longer pristine but stained with her virgin blood, the evidence of our raw, primal lust. And all I can think is one word. One word over and over again. The only one that makes any sense.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
30
Isabelle
He cleans me when it’s over. When I’ve collapsed on the bed after multiple orgasms, our bodies and the sheets, stained red.
I lie in his bed spent half-expecting him to send me to my room, half-wanting him to. The shower switches off and a moment later, he returns to the bedroom with a towel tied low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to his chest, torso and arms, his hair wet. He stops as if surprised to see me in his bed and I have to shift my gaze from his eyes.
I’m lying on my side facing him. I’m too exhausted to move when he comes toward me. He drops the towel and before he switches out the lamp, I glimpse the slashes of red on the outside of his thigh. The marks of the belt.
I turn my back to him when he climbs in and only relax when he draws a silky blanket up over my hips.
It’s silent for a long moment. “All right?” he asks.
I feel strangely sad by the question as a tear slides down one cheek. I don’t understand this. I should feel hate. Only hate.
But then I think about those red slashes on his thigh. “Why did you do it?” I ask.
“Which part?”
“Why didn’t you whip me?”
