He laughs, the sound harsh and triumphant. "Fuck me? That's what you've wanted since I met you, isn't it, you desperate little slut?" He drives in deeper, so deep I swear I feel him in my lungs. The savage ache blooms into something that makes my body sing. "You're so goddamn hungry for it, you could live off my cock if I let you. Isn't that what you really want, princess?"
The friction, the fullness, the sick, perfect cruelty of it has me seeing stars. Every ruthless stroke sends me closer to the edge. I try to resist, I really do, but he's too good. He knows exactly how to break me with his violent worship.
His hand slides up my body, closing around my throat. He squeezes, cutting off my breath.
My vision narrows to a tunnel as the world dissolves. The only things that exist are the impossible pressure at my throat, the brutal, perfect stretch of him inside me, and the way his grip on my wrists makes me feel small and helpless and alive for the first time in forever.
"Want to know what I see when I look at you?" His voice is a sandpaper rasp in my ear, his fingers a point of fire at the pulse in my throat. "I see a brat who needs to be wrecked. A princess just begging for a leash instead of a crown. A girl so desperate to be my little whore that she'll torch everything just to hide how much she wants it."
He watches my face, his eyes bright and dark and so fucking self-satisfied. I try to snarl, to spit a denial, but all that comes out is a high, strangled whimper.
He likes that. God, he likes it.
"Isn't that right, Brielle?" His hips slam into mine, slower now, grinding out a rhythm designed to obliterate me. "You want me to break you, so you don't have to do it yourself. You want to be owned just like this."
I try to shake my head, but I can't.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be ruined? To be mine?" His voice is almost gentle. "You're never going to be able to fuck anyone else, princess. Not after me."
I can't speak. Can't even moan. All I can do is take what he gives me.
His hand tightens on my throat, just enough to make my whole body seize, pleasure cresting somewhere between terror and surrender.
"Come for me," he snarls. "Now."
I do. I shatter around him, my body locking up, my vision going black at the edges. He releases his hold on my throat,allowing me to draw a breath. After so long without one, it does something to me, sending me careening into some other dimension.
I scream his name, not even caring who hears. Not caring who knows what he's doing to me right now.
He keeps fucking me through the orgasm, wringing every last spasm from my body.
"Mine." He kisses me, savage and sweet at the same time.
And just for a second, I let myself believe that I belong to him. I let myself pretend that he doesn't hate me, and this isn't about revenge for him. I let myself pretend that this is real.
He fucks me until I come again, until I'm sobbing in his arms, until the pain and pleasure blur into one, and I'm too wrecked to feel anything but the way he forces me to take every brutal thrust.
This time, he comes with me, his hips slamming into me one last time before he buries his face in my throat, gasping my name. His body shakes as he spills inside of me, filling me so full I whimper in response.
When he's finished, he unties my wrists and holds me, stroking my hair with surprising gentleness. For a second, I see something in him that's not violence or cruelty. It's soft and warm. Maybe it's regret. Maybe it's love. I don't know. But it scares the hell out of me.
With his face buried in my throat, I think I hear him whisper my name.
But I must be imagining it.
He's a monster. He'll always be a monster. And monsters don't love.
So why is it so hard to remember that?
I don't know. Isn't that the problem? I've never known why I keep letting myself forget how dangerous he is to me.
Chapter Seven
Brielle
In the aftermath, the office is colder than before. Or maybe it only feels that way because of the sweat cooling on my skin. I don't know. But I shiver as I stare at the marks on my wrists.
My skirt is a wrinkled wreck around my ankles. Every muscle in my body aches. Little spots of blood dot the rug, standing in testament to what we did.
