room. “You wouldn’t care if he were fucking you. You’d make those little noises, and bite your lip and ride him as though he were a fucking king—” He shoves me back, and I land on the box spring, gaping up at him as he looms above. “Can you even tell the difference, Ada-Maria? Between the cock of a bastard you despise, and the one of the man who worships this little body from the inside out?”
His hands land on my thighs, applying enough force to flatten them against the box spring. My heart starts to race, my throat suddenly dry. His shift in tone is giving me whiplash. Emotionless one minute, dark and gritted the next…
“Can you even tell the difference between pleasure and pain?” He crouches, running one of his hands along my thigh.
I kick at him, attempting to clamp my knees together. He drags them apart, pulling me to the edge of the bed so that my legs are on either side of him, perched against his hips.
“Can you tell the difference between fucking a man who doesn’t give a damn about you and one who craves every fucking inch of your body?”
Yes, a part of me whispers, pairing the way Tristan would touch me to…
“I used to imagine it,” he tells me, holding my legs captive. “Having you at my mercy like this. Mine alone.”
My only mode to attack him is to rear up and lash at his chest, nails drawn. Every blow, he withstands without flinching. When I aim for his face next, he hooks his fingers around the back of my skull, wrenching me toward him. As a result, I’m forced almost onto my knees, chest pressed against him as he claims my mouth again.
This time, I don’t go down without a fight. I bite, scratching at any inch of exposed skin. He groans, swallowing each attempt at aggression. Like he’s getting off on it all. My fight. My hate. The fact that there’s nowhere I can go.
He has me, body and soul. Not by choice.
He’s too strong, his lips like fire, lashing me open and igniting any flesh he comes in contact with. Against my will, I groan for him, letting him eagerly drink down the sound.
Then I remember my senses and bite him again, so hard he pulls back.
“I will never be yours,” I hiss, startled by the intensity in my own voice. “So sell me if you want to. You can’t hurt me.”
No more than he already has, at least.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat as he shoves me down. This time, he mounts me after, pinning my limbs to the bed, all while distributing his weight so as to not hurt me. A part of me marvels at that, though I can’t tell if it’s actual concern on his part.
Or merely so he has easy access to snatch a fistful of my skirt and drag it up over my waist.
“I can hurt you,” he clarifies, and the look in his eye bolsters that warning. “But I can also give you more pleasure than any other man. You know that. Just in case, I should refresh your memory...”
He lunges, using one hand to pry my legs apart for his mouth to assault me again. Somehow, I’m still sensitive from the first time, and the shock of his warm lips nudging me apart renders me senseless. For one pathetic, brutal, beautiful second, I forget how much I should hate him, and I merely relent to the overwhelming wave of sensation he arouses with just one brush of his tongue.
And a thrust.
And another.
Another…
My back arches as my nails scrape at the unyielding material beneath me. Even it isn’t a sturdy enough anchor. Desperate, I reach for something stronger and find it in the form of silk attached to a firm surface.
A “surface” that growls when I flex my nails against it. Hurting him is my only form of retaliation as he torments me with every stroke of his tongue.
The orgasm I can feel building coils in my stomach, growing stronger and stronger until I’m swallowed by it.
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses as I writhe, my body convulsing.
I think the whiplash is too much, even for him. He rises onto his knees, his lips glistening, gaze seeking out mine.
I’m still gasping for air when I realize what he’s doing—not retreating, just wrenching his pants down his legs, freeing a cock that stabs proudly at the air, already fully erect.
I think