He senses it. Of course he does.
He uses his thumb to pry my mouth open with slow, unrelenting pressure. The taste of his skin, salt and sin, sends a bolt of liquid fire through me as the head of his cock smears across my bottom lip.
He doesn't ask again. He just pushes inside, inch by inch, until my mouth is stretched wide around him. I try to twist away, but his fingers in my hair are an iron cage.
He waits, savoring the control, watching me struggle to breathe around him.
I glare up, promising murder, but he doesn't care. He likes it.
"That's it," he moans. "Look at me while I use you."
He rocks forward, forcing himself deeper. My breath snags, then stops. My throat fights the intrusion as I gag, but he doesn't let me go. He just holds me there, not saying a word. There's nothing but the slow, predatory roll of his hips and the hollow sound of my own humiliation.
He picks up speed, fucking deeper, not letting me breathe except in the split seconds between thrusts. My eyes water, my makeup streaks, and saliva leaks down my chin.
I want to hate it, I want to hate him, but all I can think is how good it feels to be wrecked by him, to be owned by him. Right now, he doesn't hate me. He's enjoying himself too much to remember why he should.
"You're so pretty when you're crying for me," he groans. "I feel your tears dripping down my shaft. Can you taste them, princess?"
I dig my nails into his thigh, drawing blood through his pants. He just thrusts harder, one hand keeping my head in place while the other wraps around my throat, my pulse thundering under his grip.
"My pretty little cockwhore," he breathes, thrusting so deep I choke. "No one else will ever touch you, not while I'm alive."
The worst part isn't that he means it. It's the way my body clenches in response to his threats and degradation, a flood of arousal sweeping through me. It's the way he knows that he's the only one I've ever wanted to touch me.
He's right about me. I never wanted any of the men I tried to date. I just wanted him to hate the thought of me with them. I wanted him to hate it enough to do something about it. For as long as I've known him, it's been him I dreamed about. Always him.
He's close. I can feel the tremor in his body, the shudder in his breath. I look up at him, my eyes streaming, and he grins down at me, a beautiful monster.Mybeautiful monster.
He comes with a guttural noise, filling my mouth. "Swallow."
I do as instructed, too shocked not to. It's not like I have another choice. He holds my head there, forcing me to take every drop.
When he finally lets go, I fall back on my heels, gasping, my chest heaving.
He crouches down and wipes the tears from my cheek with his thumb, gentler than I expect. "Good girl," he says, his voice soft.
Something about that pisses me off, so I spit at his feet.
He just laughs in response.
He stands, tucks himself away, and smooths my hair back into place. He helps me up, his hands steady at my waist, and kisses me once, almost sweetly. His taste is everywhere, setting me on fire. I'm actually shaking with need.
I know he feels it, but he holds me there for a moment, his hands tight around me. "You'll pay for your smart mouth every time you use it," he murmurs.
I glare at him, hating how much I want to kiss him again, but I don't say anything.
He smirks, brushing his thumb over my bruised lip. "See? You're learning already."
He strides across the office, pausing at the door.
I gape at him, shocked. He's leaving? Now?
"What the fuck?" I mutter, glaring at him. "You use me, but don't return the favor?"
"I have an appointment." He smirks at me. "And I seem to remember saying that you were being punished for your smart mouth, not rewarded for it."
"I hate you."
