And fuck. . .it’s euphoric.
Her breath catches as she feels how hard I am. There’s no mistaking it. She stills. If I could feel embarrassment I would for how quickly I’m about to come in my briefs. But her sweet warm cunt against my cock and her hands wrapped tightly around my throat have me in pure rapture.
Boldly, she moves her hips. A soft slow motion that frays every one of my nerve endings. My fingers bite into her flesh as my eyes roll back and I let out a deep moan.
It’s when she nips along my jawline I’m unable to control the pent of up desire and crazed lust.
Moaning her name I come quick and hard.
All it took was an elevated dry humping session with my inexperience to have me coming in under a minute.
My first orgasm from another woman belongs to my enemy’s daughter.
But it’s not just my first orgasm she’s claimed. My first sexual encounter belongs to her too.
And now that I’ve experienced pure undulated desire and pinnacle bliss I don’t want to let that feeling go.
Fuck, it’s the first thing I have ever felt without feeling confused or left wondering what it is I’m feeling.
But damn it, I have to.
This is Imogen Murphy. Daughter of Seamus Murphy.
I killed her brother.
Kidnapped her.
Drugged her.
I’m keeping her as my fucking prisoner.
That’s who she is. That’s all she can ever be.
Firmly grasping her hips I remove her with more force than necessary. Her brows pinch together, confusion marring her delicate features.
Even I know it’s cruel to not glance back at her as I head to the en-suite bathroom, but I don’t.
I close the door behind me knowing her eyes have never left me.
Hands formed in fists, knuckles white, I lean against the counter with my head dropped.
When I finally look in the mirror I see a different man. One who I can possibly understand. One who can possibly be understood.
Conflicting emotions battle within me. As much as I want to fight reason and fact I know with her I can not. I am without armor. Vulnerable and exposed. With her I am only flesh and bone. A look, a touch and I become malleable.
The saying goes, God created us in his image.
But it’s wrong. It always has been.
I always believed we are born in this world as our own. We are our own deciders. Made by atom and atom to represent what makes us our own person. Not by god. Not by religion. We represent no one but ourselves.
Except now it’s wrong for a different reason entirely. One not of logic or fact or science.
A god has not created me in his image.
La mia gazzella Imogen has created me in her image.
And the man she created will bring devastation and havoc upon this earth for her. Dare any man to raise their tongue against her. Be consumed by jealousy and rage for any man who touches her. To have a sick need to possess her and watch her fall apart beautifully in my arms only to restore her. I am a man with no limitations and no morality. In her creation I am a man not bound by honor and loyalty but something much greater.
