But enough to challenge me, enough to throw down the gauntlet.
Enough to dare me to respond.
And I fucking love it, love that she’s still got fight.
I pull my fingers free, slowly, slick with saliva and coated in her defiance, then shove them back between her legs, harder now, pressing against the thin barrier of denim like I might tear it open if she doesn’t open herself first.
She gasps, a sound punched from her lungs.
Clutches at my shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric.
And that’s the moment when everything shifts.
That’s when it changes.
She surges forward—not to slap this time.
To kiss.
Mouth crashing into mine like war, all teeth and spit and fury, like if she can just consume me first, I won’t get the chance to own her, like she can reclaim power through aggression.
She’s too late for that strategy because I already do own her.
My hand slides under her waistband, fingers pushing past soaked cotton to the heat beneath, and she groans—deep and raw and broken—the kind of sound that betrays everything she’s been trying to hide.
And I don’t stop, don’t give her space to think.
I don’t give her room to breathe or reconsider.
I press my palm flat against her cunt, fingers curling inside like I belong there, like she’s mine to stretch, mine to fill, mine to wreck however I see fit.
And when her hips rock forward, helpless and greedy and trembling with need, I grin against her mouth and whisper:
“That’s it. That’s fucking mine now.”
She tries to fight me again, summons reserves of resistance.
Not just with words this time—with everything she has left.
She claws at my wrist, nails digging in, twists her hips away, grinds her teeth like she wants to sink them into my throat and end it right here, like if she can just stop this from happening, she won’t have to admit how badly she needs it.
I’m not that easy to kill, not that easy to deter and she’s not that good at pretending anymore because even as she pushes, she’s panting, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Even as she curses, her cunt clenches around nothing, muscles fluttering and when I bury two fingers inside her without ceremony, rough and unrelenting, she gasps like the air’s been ripped out of her lungs and replaced with something darker, something she doesn’t have a name for yet.
She shakes her head frantically. “No—fuck—you can’t?—”
“I can,” I state simply.
“I don’t?—”
“You do,” I interrupt.
And then she moans despite herself.
Loud. Raw. Ugly in its honesty.
Like the truth spilled out faster than she could swallow it back down.
