He stills, aiming his icy stare at me.” I’m done with you.I hate you.You fucking liar. Ass?—”
Surging forward, I claim his lips to silence him. I know his words are true, but can’t stand to hear them. Driving my tongue into his mouth won’t change how he feels, but it will remind him I’m the only one for him, no matter how fucked up things get between us. No matter how much he hates me or how spectacularly I fail at being his husband.
Bolton bites my bottom lip, sinking his teeth into my soft flesh. I revel in the pain, refusing to back down. He may hateme right now, but my pain—the blood he drew—is a reminder he still feels for me. He isn’t done with me yet, and never will be.
I said it two years ago, and I’ll say it until the day I die—Bolton Monroe is mine. And I’m never letting him go.
I pull away from him, our lips a breath apart. “Bite me. Hit me. Despise me. Whatever you need to do, lightning bolt. But don’t think you’ll ever get rid of me.”
He licks the blood from my lips, then sucks on the wound. The stinging pain makes me feel alive, and I grind against him on instinct, slotting our lengths together. The coldness in his eyes melts, replaced by heat and need. He sucks on my lip harder, and I groan.
“Shut the fuck up and fuck me,” he snarls.
There’s a radiator on the wall with a hooked piece of metal. I drag him over and raise his bound wrists above his head, looping the zip tie to the hook. He’s trapped at my mercy, laid out before me like my personal Christmas gift. I realize how serendipitous this all is—I’m wearing a Santa costume, after all.
I crouch over Bolton. His sweatshirt rides up, revealing his stomach to me. Every inch of him is beautiful. I can still see my fading bite marks from earlier this week, angry red welts on white, creamy skin. I take my length out and stroke it as I appreciate the site.
Bunching his shirt up, I expose his chest before biting down on his nipple. Crying out, he bucks his hips off the floor. I lick the sting away before biting the other one. He’s so responsive, so full of anger and pain. I bite the skin around his existing bruises, marking him as mine. No matter what happens here tonight, he’ll always be mine. His gasps and breathy sighs are music to my ears—proof that his darkness will always call to mine even if he wants to lock it up and throw away the key.
“Cal!” he pleads.
I pull off his sweatpants and shoes with a ravenous hunger only my baby can sate. Throwing his legs over my shoulders, I marvel at his pretty, perfect hole. I can’t wait to wreck it, to ruin him so thoroughly he’ll never be able to leave me.
I swirl my tongue around his rim, nipping, sucking, and devouring him until his knees shake with pleasure. His moans get louder, driving me insane with the need to get inside him. I spit on my finger, pushing it inside him and stretching him out with a gentleness I can barely fake.
“Yes, fuck daddy, stretch my hole before you ruin it. Give me another finger.” My little fucking brat, always wanting more, never satisfied.
“Who’s daddy’s greedy little slut?” I demand, needing to hear him say it.
He clamps his mouth shut, refusing to speak. I pull my finger out, and he frowns at the emptiness.
Wrapping my hand around his cock, I work him in steady strokes—enough to keep in on edge but not provide any relief.
“Answer me,” I growl.
He glares at me, gritting his teeth. “I’m not saying a damn thing. You’re a sick fuck who lied to me. I told you what would happen the next time you crossed me.”
I remember that day at the cabin two years ago.
“If you ever treat me this way again, I’m leaving Cal. I’ll disappear where you’ll never find me.”
A molten rage erupts inside me. If he thinks he’s leaving me, he’s gravely mistaken. I slide two fingers inside him, reveling in the bliss on his face. I’m the one who makes him feel this way—the only one who knows exactly how to make him beg for more.
“Fuck,” he gasps as I glide past his prostate.
“You want more?” I tease him, my lips curling into a wicked smile. “Beg for it, Bolton.”
His eyes widen at my use of his full name. He doesn’t know how his words pushed the monster lurking inside me. I press on his firm bundle of nerves again, and he bows off the ground.
“Please, more,” he screams, a feral glint in his eyes. I still inside him, staring him down. “Daddy please. Please!”
I spit on his hole, catching the liquid with a third finger before pushing it inside him. I briefly consider working up to four fingers, but as much as I want to remind him who he belongs to, I can’t hold back any longer.
I see the mask lying on the floor next to him and put it on, donning the Christmas Cleaver persona I created. A man who’s ruthless and takes no prisoners. Who’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants—and I want is for Bolton to remember who owns him.
I shove three fingers down his throat until he gags, getting them nice and wet before covering my cock in his spit. He watches me over his shoulder with a quiet, seething intensity, his anger plain as day on his handsome face. I flip him over onto his hands and knees, pushing his shoulders down and lifting his hips up. He looks over his shoulder at me with a glazed, hungry expression. My sick little writer loves masks—secretly craves the darkness he writes about in his stories. He’s just as twisted inside as I am.
Lining myself up, I push into him with one swift thrust. He groans, swiveling his hips in a desperate bid for friction. Grasping his hips, I drive into him, unleashing every insecurity and fear swarming inside me. The fear of him leaving me. Of being a bad husband. Of hurting him with my selfishness. Of never finding peace, even after I burn Bawdin’s operation to the ground. Of never deserving the angel before me. My punishing rhythm has him moaning, gasping. Making sounds of pleasure I’ve never heard before. He clenches around me, and I move one hand to his cock, working him from base to tip. Our sharedorgasm is an explosion. I catch his release in my hand, then feed it to him. He swallows it, licking my fingers clean.
