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“You just begged me to fuck you.”
“No, you made me.”
I’m so fighting mad that every stroke of his cock shoots pleasure through me. I push back against him, wanting it deeper, harder, all-consuming so I don’t have to have this conversation.
“That’s it, sweetness, push that ass into me. Ride me.”
It’s then I realize he’s not moving, I am. I’m driving myself down on him, wanting him everywhere. And his hand slides down off my hip as he moves back a little, and I follow, not wanting to lose the fullness, the sensations of when he bottoms out in me, the way everything sparks and sings and begs for more and more and more.
His hand slides down and around to my clit, and he starts stroking me as he releases my hand and wraps the other around my throat.
Christian has me now. I’m his, totally. He has all the control. He could cut off my air, he could do as he taunted, take me in the ass, and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing. But he lets me fuck myself on him, and there’s a strange sound in the room.
A keening moan, and as my body starts to really hum, the pressure of the pleasure builds and centers around my clit and pussy where I’m the one doing all the drilling. I’m almost dazedly shocked to find out that the sound is coming from me. And I bite my lip.
“Mia. Fuck. Mia.”
“Oh, God.” I bite harder, everything building, like pressure in a pot, and I’m starting to bubble over as the orgasm builds and stretches and grows, not quite there. “Oh, yes . . . yes . . . yessss . . . .”
And I explode, my entire being lighting up with pleasure that crashes down over me, and I’m coming hard, my pussy contracting around his cock.
He suddenly groans, and his finger is still working me, still playing with my clit, making that whole sensitive spot explode again.
Christian bites down, hard, on the back of my neck, and he shudders, his cock spasming inside me as he fills me with his cum. I can feel it inside, and it’s better than anything I’ve ever felt, or known before.
I slump on the desk, cheek on a file, and squeeze my eyes shut. Another tiny roll of pleasure unfurls, and he lets go of my throat. His hand coming to stroke my hair and my scarred cheek, and I lie there.
Through all of it, he never closed that hand into a fist around my neck. He never lost control and tried to hurt me.
Oh, I could run through all the things that were wrong with how this started, but I can’t shake the feeling, no, the knowledge that if I’d said no to him, we wouldn’t have had sex.
He pulls out of me, his cock still fairly hard, and air moves over my exposed pussy, my dress flipped up. He dresses. The zipper, then the belt, and shame starts to slide into me.
“Y’know, I wouldn’t help you if I didn’t think you’d actually try and shoot me,” he says, a strange kind of warmth in his voice as he smooths my dress into place, covering me. “Because fuck, you’re vision. You look even better like you are, best with your dress still up and everything on display, showing me how much I marked you as mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
He’s silent a moment, his fingers gentle on my hair. “You are, you know. Mine.”
Slowly, I pick myself up from the desk, keeping my back to him as I smooth things back into place, as I try to get hold of some semblance of equilibrium.
But it’s not there.
My hard-earned shell is in pieces, and I don’t have it in me to put it together.
I take in a breath, hating myself for giving in so easily. For being another notch.
For going there willingly when I know exactly what it means.
His?
Bullshit.
I’m his for as long as it takes him to grow bored.
That’s what that means. Nothing more, nothing less. Being told I’m his is not forever, it’s for right now. And what am I even thinking? Forever? I don’t want him. He got me worked up, and I scratched that itch, nothing more.
“Well, you can add the scarred girl to your list. Congratulations.”
