He flipped me onto my back again, took my face in his hands, and kissed me, slow and deep, like we had all the time in the world.
“You did so good,” he said. “Proud of you.”
I was still crying, but I smiled, just a little.
He stroked my hair, wiped the tears from my cheeks, then lay down next to me, pulling me into the curve of his body. I let myself melt into him, into the warmth and safety and promise of something bigger than myself.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.
He let me linger in the afterglow, let me believe for a few seconds that I’d survived the worst of it, that I could catch my breath and maybe start putting myself back together. But then he shifted, rolled off the bed, and stood at the edge, looming in the dark like something engineered for violence.
I watched as he peeled off his shirt, exposing a body that was all muscle and scars, every inch of him mapped by old wounds and newer tattoos. My eyes caught on the Force Recon emblem inked over his deltoid, then the line of script running down his ribs, then the pale lines of claw marks that looked more animal than human. He unbuckled his belt, letting the metal clatter against the floor, and shucked his jeans with a casual efficiency that made my pulse skip. He wore nothing underneath. Of course he didn’t.
I stared. I couldn’t help it. His cock was… fuck. I had words for everything, but not this. Big, obviously, but that wasn’t the half of it—thick, heavy, veined, with a head that looked engineered for maximum intimidation. My breath caught, and my wolf, so recently subdued, went wild with a mixture of panic and anticipation. He stroked it once, slowly, and I felt my insides clench with both terror and want.
He caught me staring, grinned like a bastard, then crawled back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He flipped me back onto my stomach and positioned himself behind me, hands splayed across my lower back, pressing me down into the sheets.
“You see this, little bird?” he said, voice all grit and honey. “You think you can take it?”
I looked at him over my shoulder and shook my head, honestly. “I don’t know.”
“You will.” He stroked himself, then lined up the head with my opening. I was still wet, still leaking, but the stretch when he pushed in was like nothing I’d ever felt. Not pain, exactly, but a sweet, tearing pressure that went all the way up my spine. He went slowly at first, just the tip, then backed out and pushed in again, a little deeper each time.
I whined, a sound I hadn’t meant to make. He moaned, guttural, like the noise came from somewhere deep within. “Fuck, Parker, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “I’m gonna ruin you.”
He meant it. He bottomed out finally, and held there, grinding his hips into my ass. I could feel the pulse of his cock inside me, hot and insistent, and the sensation was overwhelming. He wrapped a hand around my throat, not squeezing, just holding, as if reminding me whose air I was breathing.
He started to move, slow at first, then faster. Each thrust rocked the bed, the headboard knocking a staccato rhythm against the wall. He kept up a steady stream of dirty talk, never letting me forget what I was, what he was doing to me.
“You like this, don’t you? Being fucked like a little toy? Letting me take whatever I want? You’re so wet, I could drown in you. You were made for me, you know that?”
I whimpered, tried to answer, but all that came out was another needy sound. He laughed, then bent forward, putting his mouth right next to my ear.
“You’re not getting my knot,” he said, voice barely more than a growl. “Not tonight. You know why?”
I shook my head, helpless.
He fucked me harder, the slap of his hips against my ass echoing through the room. “Because only my mate gets that. And I don’t have one.”
The words hit me like a punch. My wolf keened, an invisible agony that twisted in my gut. I wanted it. I wanted it so bad I could taste the need in the back of my throat. I’d never believed in mates, never let myself hope for anything so animal and absolute, but now the denial felt like a punishment worse than anything he’d done to my body.
He reached around and found my clit, rubbing it in hard, ruthless circles that made my toes curl and my vision blur. I felt the orgasm building again, bigger than before, a tidal wave that swept away all thought.
He bit down on my shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. “You gonna come for me, Wren? You gonna let me have it?”
I nodded, sobbing now. “Please, please—”
He sped up, fucking me with the kind of abandon that bordered on violence, and when I came, it was with a shudder that left me limp and shattered. I clawed at the sheets, at his hand, at anything I could reach. He kept going, kept talking, kept reminding me that I was his, that he could do whatever he wanted.
He pulled out at the last second, jerking himself off onto my back. I felt the hot splash, the proof of his victory, and it should have made me feel cheap, ruined. But instead, I felt a dark, twisted pride. I’d taken everything he had to give, and I was still here.
He lay next to me, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. He reached over, wiped the tears from my cheeks, then kissedme, soft and lingering, as if apologizing for what he’d just done. There was no need to apologize. It wasn’t just my body that had wanted it. My heart had too. I wanted him. All of him.
“You did good,” he said, voice gentler now. “You did so fucking good.”
I nodded, still crying, but not from pain.
He grabbed a towel from beside the bed and wiped his cum off my back. Then he pulled me into his arms, cradled me like something precious. I let myself rest there, let myself be small and safe.
