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His voice resonates through me, and I can’t even formulate a response.
At least until he gruffly commands, “Show me.”
I stiffen, my cheeks flaming. “You saw for yourself—”
“I want you to show me.” His tone leaves no room for argument. He takes my hand next, manipulating the fingers outward. With his eyes on the trembling digits, he asks, “Where did they hurt you?”
I suck in a breath at the word choice—my own. Shock alone startles me into complying—I point to my thigh, and he guides my hand there, covering it with his own.
“Where else?”
My fingers twitch, moving inward, and he follows, up my inner thigh and then higher.
“Look at me, Lupe.”
Our eyes meet at the exact moment that he strokes one of my fingers into extending and then guides it inside me. I cringe at first—it should feel humiliating. The second I start to squeeze my eyes shut in shame, his breath floods my ear, his voice hoarse.
“I claim this,” he tells me. “All of this.”
With every word, he coxes my own finger even deeper. Held in his grasp, the contact feels different than any other time I might have been driven to touch myself. It’s as if his strength leeches into my skin, infecting my muscle and tendons. My own hands take on attributes of his, pairing his firm, unyielding pressure with an unexpected softness.
It feels…
Like heaven and hell in one fell swoop. Like glorious fire and ice. He isn’t brutalizing me in this instance—marking me as a dominant predator would. He’s making me declare myself as his in a way I can’t deny. Can’t ignore.
“I want to hear you say it,” he grates, his lips against my earlobe. “So, you can imagine yourself saying it to those bastards. You will never need to say these words again. But I want you to engrain them onto your fucking soul, Lupe. I own this.”
He urges my finger in deeper. Then almost out. Deeper. Out.
My head rears back against the wall of the stall, and I stare up into the relentlessly falling spray. There is no reason in hell why his words affect me the way they do. I’ve heard it all before, haven’t I? But in the past, those words came with a caveat. I was his…or else. Or else pain. Or else death to myself and those I cared about. I was his—there was no other option.
With Julian, it registers more like a raw, blatant fact. A reality to which there is no alternative. I am his, simply because I am. I need to be. I want to?
“Say it, Lupe,” he commands. “Or I will be forced to demonstrate.”
My lips flutter apart, but not a word comes out.
“So damn stubborn.” He tugs my hand away, and a sense of despair rips through me. It’s so strong, I almost cry out. Say something. Don’t?
Then his own calloused fingers replace the contact, and I gasp instead. He presses into me with none of the roughness of Bastian Cortez. He isn’t brutal, seeking to punish me for letting another man soil what he’s deemed as his. He caresses me from the inside out. Makes me melt into his hands. Melt into him.
My cheek meets his shoulder, and all I can do is lace my fingers through his hair and hold on for dear life.
His mouth finds my neck, parting to give way to his raking, nipping teeth. Then he wrenches me from the bench onto his lap, forcing me to clamp my knees around his hips.
I brace for him to enter me himself. Instead, he stands and carries me from the stall, leaving the water running. In a dexterous display of skill, he pivots into the bedroom and lays me on the mattress. I’ve barely gotten my bearings before his hand hooks beneath my ass, flipping me onto my stomach, facing the opposite end from where he stands.
I groan aloud as his hands fan over my hips and snatch me toward him, angling me until I’m on my knees, but with my front pressed to the mattress. The entire bed shakes as he mounts it after me, and another firm yank draws me directly onto his cock.
My eyelids flutter at the fullness. I grasp at the sheets, fighting for stability as he takes me hard. Punishingly. His hips slam into mine, his nails raking at my skin, his breath like molten fire over the healing marks on my back.
He drives into me with a strength that takes my breath away—this is how he exerts his rage in this instance. Not with pummeling or brutality, but raw, ruthless pleasure. There is no denying the ecstasy. It’s sharp, volatile. It makes me writhe as my toes curl helplessly. It makes me bite down on a mouthful of expensive comforter in a pathetic attempt to smother my cries.
It makes me forget everything this man has put me through. Everything this man is capable of.
The way he effortlessly dominates my body… I almost believe him.
“I own this,” he growls, running his lips along my spine. “All of this. Say it, Lupe. Tell me with that magic tongue what this magic pussy knew from day one.”
