"Too bad." He kneels again, rubbing the head of his cock against my clit. "You're going to take it anyway. And I'm not wearing a fucking condom, Brielle. I'm coming deep in that pretty cunt, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do to stop me."
I choke on a whimper, frantically shaking my head, trying to tell him that I'm not on birth control. But either he can't hear me, or he just doesn't care because it doesn't stop him.
"Be a good girl and rock those perfect hips while I wreck you, princess," he breathes. And then he's slamming inside me in one brutal thrust.
I'm not ready for it, not even close. I go rigid, clawing at the floor as pain and pleasure surge through me in a brutal flood.
He notices.
For the first time, he looks uncertain.
He pulls the gag out of my mouth with shaking hands, searching my face. "Jesus," he whispers, his voice choked. "You're a virgin."
I nod, dizzy with shame. I don't want him thinking I waited for him, that I had some picture in my head of him being my first all these years. But…I did wait. As much as I hate myself for it, I waited.
"You should have told me," he says, softer than I've ever heard him. Something about the way he's looking at me, like he regrets everything that just happened…hurts.
I don't want his regret. I don't want his pity or shame, either. God help me, I just want him, every wicked, hateful, ruinous inch of him.
"Why?" I spit at him, my jaw aching. "It's not like you wouldn't be here anyway, taking what you want. That's who you are, Asher. It's what you do. You love my misery."
He flinches, just barely, before that cold mask slams back into place.
"Misery?" He slides his cock in a little deeper, slow and careful. The burn is white-hot, but it's not all pain. There's a well of pleasure in it, too, a fullness that makes me gasp.
He watches my face, every muscle in his jaw clenched. "You don't seem miserable to me, Brielle. In fact…" He thrusts all the way in, making me cry out. "You look like you're in heaven right now, stuffed full of my cock."
He's right. God help me, he's right. He feels so fucking good, like every dream and wish I've ever had come to life.
He moves, slow at first, then faster, fucking me like he wants to break me, to make me admit that I want this, that I want him.
I do. I want him so badly it makes me sick. Isn't that the problem? No matter how much I tell myself I hate him, I've never stopped wanting him. I've never stopped dreaming about him. I've never been able to let him go.
I reach for him with bound hands, clawing at his shoulders. He grabs my wrists and holds them above my head, pinning me to the floor.
He fucks me hard, never taking his eyes off mine. I see the monster peeking out at me, so fucking satisfied and possessive, it's a little terrifying.
"You're mine now," he says, his voice rough. "Say it."
I try like hell to resist, refusing to give him another sliver of my soul. But…resisting is hard when he's inside me, fucking me precisely like I belong to him.
"Say it," he snarls, slamming into me.
"I hate you," I whisper in response. It's pathetic. Even I don't believe it.
He laughs. "Yeah? Then scream how much you fucking hate me while you're coming on my cock like the obedient little slut you are for me. Let the cleaning crew hear how desperate you are for this cock. You sold yourself just for a taste, didn't you?" Hepresses his lips to my ear, panting. "This tight little pussy was worth the five million, princess."
Something about the way he degrades and humiliates me has my inner muscles clamping around him. No one else would even dare speak to me that way, but…Asher isn't anyone else. He knows me in ways that are terrifying, and I think he knows just how much I fucking love every filthy, depraved, cruel word he says.
He holds me pinned beneath him, my wrists chafed and my legs splayed, and fucks me with a violence that's almost holy. Every stroke is a punishment, or maybe a confession. Either way, I can't catch my breath.
I can't fight the pleasure building to a fever pitch, either. My body doesn't care that I hate him. My body only cares about the friction, the pressure, and the way his hips crash against mine with every savage thrust.
"Look at you, soaking my cock after fighting me all week," he growls, leaning over me, forcing my bound wrists higher above my head. "Whose pussy is this, Brielle?"
I try to glare, try to summon my usual venom, but it refuses to form. I'm split open and laid bare, every inch of my body begging for more.
"Fuck you," I gasp, the words shredded by a sob.
