He presses my thighs tighter around his waist, locking me in. “This is aftercare, Butterfly. My kind. My twisted kind. You don’t get soft words and gentle strokes. You get this—” his hips roll, slow, deep, cruel—“reminders. Brands. Proof that you belong where I put you.”
I sob, shuddering, but my body arches into him anyway.
“That’s it,” he growls, dragging his tongue down my neck, over the bruises he left. “Every mark, every ache—you’ll thank me for it tomorrow. Because when you can barely walk, when your throat’s raw from screaming my name, you’ll remember who owns you.”
My tears smear between our mouths when he kisses me again, devouring, unyielding.
“And when you’re done crying into your pillow,” he rasps, his forehead pressing against mine, “I’ll crawl into your bed, drag your broken body back against me, and remind you all over again. Because that’s what aftercare looks like with me.”
He doesn’t say I love you.
He doesn’t have to.
This is his love—violent, twisted, brutal.
And I take it.
Because I’m his.
Always his.
His breath is still ragged against my hair when he finally pulls back. Not far. Never far. His hand stays locked around my throat like a collar, thumb dragging over the bruises he put there. My skin burns under it, but it’s nothing compared to the fire still clawing low in my stomach.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked, reverent in the ugliest way. “Shaking all over my cock and you still think you get to breathe without me?”
My eyes flutter, my chest heaves, but his grip tightens just enough to force me still.
“No,” he says, answering himself, dragging his forehead to mine. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime. You don’t get to move without remembering I was here first. That I’ll always be here.”
His mouth drags over my jaw, open, messy, biting. Each scrape of his teeth feels like he’s branding me deeper. His hips barely shift, cock still buried inside me, swollen and heavy, pulsing against me like he’s daring me to forget.
“You feel that?” His voice is hot at my ear, almost shaking with the wreck of it. “That’s my cum keeping you open. My seed. My mark. And when you walk tomorrow, you’re going to feel me tearing you apart all over again. Every step. Every fucking breath.”
A sob catches in my throat, but it comes out ruined, needy, begging. He drinks it in like oxygen.
His hand moves from my throat down to my ribs, pressing over every bruise he left, every bite, every place my body gave way under his hands. “Count them,” he growls. “Count them in your head every time you doubt who owns you. Every mark is a fucking reminder.”
His other hand cups the back of my head, forcing my mouth back to his. It’s not gentle. It’s devouring. His tongue slides deep,tasting his filth on me, swallowing my whimpers until there’s nothing left but his breath filling me.
When he finally rips free, he keeps his lips brushing mine, whispering the vow like a curse.
“You’re mine in the dark. Mine in the daylight. Mine in every bruise, every sob, every fucking second you think you hate me.” His hips grind again, slow, merciless, forcing another broken gasp out of me. “Say it back, Butterfly. Say it until you believe it.”
My lips tremble, my body arches despite the ache, despite the tears. “I’m yours.”
His teeth bare in a twisted smile. “Louder.”
“I’m yours.”
He kisses me hard, sealing the words into my mouth, his breath breaking against mine.
And when he finally lets me collapse against his chest, he doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms are iron around me, his cock still inside me, his voice in my ear like chains.
“You don’t walk out of here without carrying me with you. Not in your body. Not in your blood. Not in your fucking soul.”
The room smells like him.
Sweat. Smoke. The kind of heat that clings to your lungs long after the fire’s burned out.
