He likes it.
He fucks me harder, his other hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back so he can watch my face.
"You want them to see this, don't you?" he grinds out. "You want the whole fucking city to see how you look after you've been ruined."
He slaps my cheek, not hard, just enough to sting, and the humiliation makes me wetter.
"You're disgusting," I gasp, even as my hips rock up to meet him.
"Say it again," he commands, thrusting harder.
"You're disgusting—fuck—fucking animal—" I can't even finish, because I'm coming, my whole body seizing, my inner walls milking his cock like this is the only thing I was made for.
He doesn't stop.
He fucks me through the orgasm until I'm limp on the desk, sobbing in ecstasy.
He fists my hair, yanking my head up so I have to watch our reflection in the glass. I see his face. His eyes are wild, his lips bloodied from my bite, and his jaw set with absolute determination.
I see my own, too—lips parted, eyes glazed, hair wild, a girl completely undone.
He wraps his arm around my neck, not tight enough to choke, just enough to keep me in place while he fucks me raw.
"Come again," he orders.
I do. God, I do. The orgasm rips through me so hard I scream, the sound echoing off the walls.
He follows me over with a savage grunt, spilling deep inside me, his grip on my throat never letting up.
When he finally lets go, I collapse onto the desk, my hair a sweaty snarl, my makeup smeared. I don't even try to move.
He pulls out, zips up, and steps away, breathing hard.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
When I finally find my voice, it's a croak. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I ask, not really expecting an answer. I'm not sure he has an answer, honestly. I don't think he has a clue how to navigate his own goddamn complicated feelings, so he resorts to this, hiding behind the fucking monster that wants to own and destroy because it's easier than admitting that he's jealous as hell and terrified he'll lose me.
He leans over me, palms flat on either side of my head, his sweat dripping onto my skin. "You belong to me," he says again, like a prayer this time. "You don't fuck anyone else. You don't even fucking look at them."
I twist, roll onto my side, and glare up at him through the strands of hair stuck to my cheek. "But you can fuck whoever you want, right? Is that how this works? I'm your obedient little toy while you do whatever the fuck you want?"
He laughs, actually laughs, the feral sound shaking his whole body. "You really don't get it, do you?"
I sit up, yanking my ruined blouse together. "Get what? What's so fucking funny, Asher?"
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see real pain in his eyes. "The fact that you think I'd touch another woman, Brielle. There hasn't been one since before I met you." He pauses, searching my face. "I wanted you long before I should have, so much so that no one else even fucking exists to me. I'll belong to you until the day I die, even if I did fuck it all up a long goddamn time ago."
"Wha…"
He turns, grabs his jacket, and stalks out of the office, leaving me half-naked and shaking on the desk, my mind spinning.
I sit there for a long time, trying to catch my breath, trying to understand him and why he's so fucking complicated. Why does he think he fucked it up a long time ago? Is it the accident, or something else?
Eventually, I slide off the desk, gather my ruined clothes, and patch myself together as best I can. There are bruises on my thighs, scratches down my arms, and a perfect set of teeth marks on my collarbone. If the whole office doesn't already know what we're doing in his office every day, they will when they see me.
I should be furious about that. Instead, I feel alive, like the world just snapped into focus. In a way, it did. All this time, he's wanted me so much that he hasn't touched another woman since we met.
And I want him the same damn way.
