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Moaning to his words, I merely nod my response.
He continues, “Next time, you’ll be claimed, and you’ll be taking every inch of”—he slams forward— “this inside you. You’ll be letting me ride you sore. Fuck. Ride. You. Hard.” He strains to get the words out now, his orgasm brewing. “And you’ll help me work this fight from my veins with your clinging little cunt.”
Still raging with adrenaline, with violence, his grunts and growls become primal, and the energy of him, of me on my knees, of what I’m letting him do to me, sweeps me away.
I’m letting him use me.
For his pleasure. To settle his monster. The monster of the fight. I can literally feel it inside him.
The monster they made.
And I want to be dirty with him. I like being unkempt. Feral. Having spent my entire life forced into a flawless cage of sophistication, I love breaking through the bars.
More blood and sweat slide from him. As he towers over my squatted frame, fucking my hands thoroughly, my fists begin to ache, but I work him harder.
His rhythm is carnal.
He yanks on the shower tap.
Wanting to break free.
My heart gallops; he’s intimidating like this.
He locks his teeth, jaw muscles punching beneath bruised skin, pupils dilating, face contorted in brutal ecstasy, the kind that needs to be expelled, the kind that needs to be exorcised.
Through a deep growl, raw to hear and feel, he comes in powerful shots, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Matching his need, his animalistic thrusting, the words fall from him.
His warm release slaps my lips, mingling with his blood and sweat, a crimson layer to tarnish this perfectly sculptured socialite. And I’m anything but a model little Lovit daughter now.
Fatigue lolls him, and I stand. His eyes are pressed together, and he’s holding them like that. Suddenly, now sedated, the billows of his fighter’s endorphins dropping, I see him vulnerable and wounded.
I possess the back of his neck and in supportive empathy, I press my forehead to his and he exhales hard. Riding down his breath, absolute exhaustion, and something else. The tainted boy with the crooked smile, with the shaggy hair always in his eyes, an abyss within his wounds.
“Let me clean you up,” I breathe, my heart twisting as sticky plasma drips from his lower lip, sliding down it, lapping at the tiles. I lift my head from his.
Dropping my hands, I untie his wrists, and he opens his eyes to watch me tend to him. I almost burst into tears to see the crimson veins and distant gaze within his blue eyes.
He doesn’t talk. This time, I let him be. I tug off his wet gloves, the leather thick and weighted with sweat. They are hard to get off, and he winces when his swollen fists are freed.
I gasp to behold the damage within. “Xander. Is this normal?” I hold them like they are battered animals. “They look broken.”
“Not broken,” he murmurs, hoarse and fatigued. “Just swollen. Filled with fluid. They’ll be okay in a few days. Don’t worry about me, Baby.”
But I do.
I worry so much.
“Baby?” I whisper. Around him is a sense of loss but I’m not sure what eludes him or how I can get it back for him. It’s like a comedown, a drop into reality.
“Yeah.” He drops his head to my crown again in a way that suggests he just can’t hold it up alone. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, Xander,” I breathe. “Can I callyoubaby?”
“Yeah.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “I think I’d like that.”
He lifts his head again, his eyes swimming with wholesome needs. The need for my line of sight. My smile. So, I smile at him, our eyes locked. And suddenly, my entire world narrows to just him…Xander Butcher.
My heart swells despite the painful truth in front of me, the truth of the made monster. But I can’t stop my heart from feeling his touch. Can’t will it away. And I don’t want to.
