He twists his wrist, thumb finding my clit and rubbing circles that send my vision strobing. I want to hit him, to claw his face, but my arms don’t work right. I sag against the wall, fighting to keep my eyes open.
He leans in, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. “You like being used, don’t you?” he whispers. “All that power and you want someone to take it away.”
He’s right. I want to say no, but what comes out is a groan and a roll of my hips, chasing his hand for more friction. I want to tell him to stop, but if he did, I’d die.
He pulls away, and for a second I’m cold and empty, desperate for more. Then I hear the sound of his zipper, loud in the hush before he grabs me and pulls my legs around him. He’s big. Bigger than anyone should be, and he doesn’t hesitate to press the blunt head against me, lining himself up.
He pauses, just for a moment, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me you want it,” he says.
I bare my teeth. “If you make me beg, I’ll kill you.”
He shoves in anyway, no warning, no slow entry. The stretch is blinding, pain and pleasure welded together. He fucks me hard, using the leverage of the wall, one hand gripping my waist so tight I can barely breathe, the other above my head. The rhythm is relentless, each thrust driving me further up the brick, the roughness scraping my back and ass.
It’s not sweet. It’s not even sane. It’s desperate and insane, a claiming by all rights. His cock hits places no one else ever has, and with every slam I feel myself coming apart. The pleasure is so raw I almost sob.
He bites my neck, leaving a mark that will last days, maybe weeks. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me I’m fucking perfect, just like this. He tells me I’m his now, and the worst part is—I believe him.
When I come, it’s a car crash. Full-body, legs shaking, hands clawing at his back. I can’t even hear myself scream over the blood roaring in my ears.
He finishes seconds later, groaning into my shoulder, hips stuttering as he empties inside me. He stays there, pressed tight, for a long moment, breath hot against my neck.
Then it’s over.
He pulls out, lets my feet touch the ground. I’m shaking so hard I almost collapse, but he catches me, steadying me with a gentleness that almost makes me cry.
I yank my pants up, face burning. My legs feel like jelly. My hair is a wild, tangled mess, sweat slicking my forehead. I turn away from him, hiding the tears that threaten, but he catches my chin, forces me to look at him.
“You’re not the only monster here,” he murmurs. “Don’t forget it.”
I slap his hand away, hating the tremor in my fingers.
I hate him.
I hate that I want him again already.
He steps back, re-zipping his jeans, and for the first time in my life I see what addiction looks like. It’s not drugs or alcohol.
It’s this.
He watches me for a long moment, not saying anything, just… observing me.
I’m not sure if I’ve won or lost.
All I know is, I’ll never be clean of him.
Not now.
My knees almost buckle when I try to walk. The muscles in my thighs are shredded, shaky, every nerve ending still buzzing from what he did.
There’s a smear of blood on my knuckle. I lick it off, the taste hot and metallic. I want to erase every trace of him from my body, but he’s everywhere—under my nails, between my legs, his DNA pooling in my underwear.
I turn on him before he can walk away. He’s not even breathing hard, just standing a few feet away, chest rising slow and steady, arms folded as he watches me. I want to gouge his eyes out. I want to break every bone in his body.
Instead, I hiss, “Stay the fuck away from me.”
He smirks, licks his lips. “You sure about that?”
“If you touch me again, I’ll tell my father,” I say, and my voice is so cold I almost believe it. “One call, and you’ll vanish. Not even a fucking memory.”
