I can’t breathe.
“I see me.”
“What are you?”
He kisses the back of my neck.
Licks the curve of my shoulder.
Fingers curling again.
“What are you, Raven?”
My thighs shake.
My voice splinters.
And I say it—not because I’m broken, not because I’m giving in because it’s true now.
“Yours.”
He doesn’t praise me.
Not when I say it.
Not when I give him the answer he’s wrung from me—“Yours.”
He just hums.
Low. Dark. Like a lion tasting the air right before the kill.
His fingers still curl inside me, slow and deep, dragging along the wall he already ruined last night. My thighs twitch. My hips rock without permission. My mouth opens as if a scream might fall out—But I hold it because I know what happens if I break first.
He stops.
His other hand presses at the small of my back, nudging me down until I’m on all fours in front of the mirror.
Hair a mess. Chest heaving. Blood dried in delicate trails across my hips and thighs, where the cuts still weep when I move too fast.
And now?
Now I watch him move behind me.
Unbuckle his belt.
Push his pants down just far enough for his cock to spring free—already hard. Already dripping. Already twitching like it missed being inside me.
He strokes it once.
Twice.
Then lets it drag across my cunt without pushing in.
“Watch yourself,” he says again.
I do.
And I see it—the way my hips tilt up for him.
