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He crushes me to the wall, holding me there with his shoulder to my back as he unbuttons his jeans. Letting them drop to his feet, he braces himself at my entrance. Without waiting, he thrusts into me from behind, drawing out and slamming back in again before the first yelp tumbles through my lips. I pulse against the wall under his relentless fucking.
With each drive, I yelp.
Full, empty, hard—God.
It’s painful.
It’s good.
“Mine,” he growls, covering my entire back and spine with his body, leaving me no way to manoeuvre.
Finding my hands flat on the wall, he feeds his fingers on either side of mine. Leans his weight on me and captures me. Fucks me with wrath his guide.
His feverish pace is too much, anxiously overstimulating—too deep, too angry, too good. Soon I’m shaking and crying, receiving his profoundly passionate thrusts—thrusts that claim.
“Mine!”
I come with a throaty cry. “Yes.”
“Say you’re sorry.”
Shaking from being pummelled against the wall, from my screaming orgasm, I groan, “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll tell me everything!”
“I promise!”
“You’ll marry me!”
“What?”
As the claws of his orgasm sink in, he pumps his warmth into me, coming hard, a long, guttural groan wrenched from his panting lips. The heavy heat of his breath blankets my neck. His hips keep bucking to drain every inch of fight from his trembling muscles.
My body is completely taken. Used. I lean against the wall, so utterly spent I nearly slide down it. But his words are on repeat in my mind:‘You’ll marry me!’
It’s too much.
The entire night.
My stupidity.
His anguish.
Tears fill my eyes, gliding helplessly down my face as it all becomes too much to process.
“Baby.” He turns me around, possessing my throat, supporting the thrashing pulse within his grasp. He kisses the corner of my eye. “Baby, I fucking lost it. I’m so sorry.”
I cup the nape of his neck and hold his chin to my forehead, the sweat from his hair drips to my face, my tears meeting them on the trail. “You forget, Hothead. I’ll take you dirty. I’ll take you clean. Just let me be the one to take you. All of you. The hard parts and the brutal ones. The vulnerable ones. I don’t want Xander Butcher suited in stoicism.”
Twenty minutes later, we are showered and emotionally drained. Neither of us are able to tackle the night, create closure or move forward. Not right now.
We just decide to stall.
I dig my phone out of my jeans and text Chloe.
Kaya:
I am so sorry!
