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“Tell me,” he grunts between punishing strokes. “Say it. Say what we both know is true.”
I won’t. He will not break me.
Even if I want to give in. There’s a craving deep in my soul, like a tiny blaze that gets stronger each time he buries himself in me. All I want is to give him all of me. He’s who I belong to. Who I belong with.
My nails rake over his shoulders, my legs closing tighter around him, drawing him deeper without consciously meaning to. He’s right. My body knows what it needs, and it needs him.
“This tight pussy,” he groans, pounding me harder. So hard I whimper–in pain, in pleasure, I’m not sure. Both, maybe, and the pain makes the pleasure even more intense. As if I want him to hurt me. I like it. “I’m going to come. Do you think your pussy deserves my cum?”
“Yes!” I gasp, digging my nails into his ass.
“Prove it. Make me believe you deserve it.”
“Please, please!”
“Please… what?” he grits out.
“Please.” I lock my legs behind him, holding him in place. “Please, fill me up. Give it to me.”
There is no reason for this. It makes no sense. Why do I want this? I only know I do. I do so much. His groaning reaches a feverish pitch, hard and fast like his thrusts, and on the final one he drives deep and stays there. A rush of heat follows his deafening roar, and I have no idea why it feels so satisfying to know he’s emptying himself inside me. When he pulls me closer, winding his arms around my back and holding me against his chest–where his heart pounds almost shockingly fast–it feels right. Like I was always meant to be here.
At least until I come back to my senses. The rush of euphoria dies, and I’m left knowing he got to me again. He broke me down against my will. And I loved it.
Disappointment takes root and spreads through me until I can do nothing but push against his chest with both hands. “Let me go,” I grunt, pushing again, until finally he loosens his grip. Maybe it’s surprise. Maybe he already got what he wants, but either way, he lets go so I can sit up.
“What’s wrong now?” he demands in a growl, still hovering possessively over me while I try to pull myself together.
“We shouldn’t have done that.”
“According to whom?” He runs a hand over my hair, clicking his tongue. “Will you ever stop denying yourself what you want? Who cares what the rest of the world thinks, or if it’s right or wrong.”
It isn’t the rest of the world I care about. It’s the fact that I just begged the man who might have killed my mother to come inside me. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know how to feel.
Stroking my hair, he murmurs, “Don’t you know you belong to me? I don’t say that lightly. There is no other woman in the world I’d rather be with.”
His hand cups the back of my head, his fingers pressing against my scalp as he turns my face toward his. He narrows his eyes, lifting his lip in something close to a snarl. “Much less come inside. I’m not going to waste time fighting the inevitable. I know you belong to me, Bianca. You are mine, and I am all you’ll ever need.” He trails the fingers of his free hand over my jaw. “When are you going to wake up and realize this, as I’m not going to stop until you do.”
The thing is, my traitorous body agrees with him. The slightest touch, and I’m shivering, fighting the urge to melt into his arms. But I can’t. I can’t betray Mom like that–and until I know the truth, it will always feel like a betrayal.
I manage to turn my face away, shaking off his touch. “No. We’re wrong for each other. You’re wrong for me. Why don’t I get a say in this?”
“Because I know better, and I’m older and wiser.”
“You don’t, though.” I feel him dripping from my pussy as I pull my clothes together, trying to show a little dignity, even though dignified is the last word that comes to mind whenever we’re together. “This can’t happen again. I don’t want it to happen again.”
“You know you do.”
“Stop telling me what I know!” I snap, and the way he recoils in surprise gives me strength. “I know how I feel, and this makes me feel awful. Rotten and wrong. You can’t say you care about me or want me if you don’t care that my being with you like this makes me feel terrible about myself. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Fine, then,” he sighs. “Let’s talk about it.”
“There is nothing to talk about,” I insist. “We’re nothing. This was only sex and a mistake at that. I’m finished.”
