“How does it feel?”
Another thrust.
“To know you’re mine.”
Another.
“To know you’re just a tight, dripping little prize I get to use whenever I want.”
I cry out. Not from pain.
From the overwhelming, brutal truth of it.
His hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing.Claiming.
His cock buried to the hilt.
“Say it,” he snarls. “Say you’re mine.”
And I do.
My body splinters around him. Heat crashing through me like fire on dry timber.
“Please,” I sob. “Please—more—please?—”
“Come,” he demands. “Now.”
Helpless. Violent. Loud.
My orgasm rips through me like lightning—hot, devastating, complete.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let me breathe.
He fucks me through the tremors until he finds his own edge—buries himself to the hilt with a broken, wrecked groan.
When he comes, it feels like a claim.
His weight sinks onto me. His breath ghosts hot across my skin.
Neither of us speak.
There’s nothing left but the sound of our hearts pounding and the raw, echoing truth of what just shattered between us.
I’m not just taken.
I’ve been seen for the first time ever.
He holds there, deep inside me, one hand on my throat, the other gripping my hip like he’s still fucking claiming me.
My pulse pounds against his palm. My breath shakes.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
He’s waiting.
Waiting for me to say it.
That I’m his.
