I moan again. The sound is embarrassingly wanton. “Yes, please, Sir.”
He lets go of my wrists, but I don’t move them. I lay still, trembling, as he leans back on his knees and begins to unbutton his jeans, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact nor softening his intent with a smile.
He slides out of his pants, and the sight of his cock—long, hard, covered in pretty blue veins—makes my thighs tremble and my pussy clench around… a tampon.
Did he?
“You have such lovely manners,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Such a lovely tight body. You walk around, flashing me those legs and that arse.” He tsks. “Mine.”
He bends to kiss lines up and down my throat, then across my collarbone. I arch my back with a whimper. This is Clay Butcher on the weekend. This is my everything on a Saturday, after a shoot in his underground range, and an espresso, when he is the closest to being normal—not the Don of theCosa Nostra, or the devil’s prototype, but a man.
My hands ache to clutch at his hair, but I hold them obediently above my head.
All the voices—my mother’s, the police who didn’t believe me, my foster brothers who used me, the old wounds—are silent in this moment. There is only him, the heat of his skin and the way he can soothe me with his touch.
He crawls down my body. When he pushes my knees further apart, I feel the cool air tickling between my legs. He brings his mouth to that special place, and I squirm, my hands landing on his head, gripping his hair. I try to tug him away from my entrance. “Sir! My period.”
He doesn’t stop. “Your clit is not bleeding, sweet girl,” he says, licking the tiny bundle of nerves. “Do not stop me from touching what is mine.”
The sound he makes as he sucks me is the most erotic noise I’ve ever heard—a rumble from his core, a snarl from his throat. “Christ,” he murmurs.
My clit buzzes with sensation.
I drop my head back to the pillow and obey, gently fondling his hair, letting this man do what he wants with my body. Always. Forever. I will do anything for him. I feel his warm fingers at my entrance and then the sensation of my tampon being pulled out.
I blush immediately.
“Good girl. That is trust. I demand it always. You sometimes forget.” He crawls over me; his hands slide along my sides before taking hold of my wrists and pinning them above my head again. He holds himself up, staring down at me, and then he is inside me—not slow, not gentle—but with a certainty that makes my throat close.
“Mine!”
I gasp, tears spilling from my eyes, not from pain but from ecstasy. The ecstasy of being so entirely filled, so completely seen and cared for—understood.
He thrusts in and out with fierce intensity, braced above me, taking me hard and fast. I surrender to each forceful drive that sends me jolting up the mattress.
Everything dissolves into pleasure—my insecurities, the world’s bad math, all my counting of threes, drown in the sight and feel of being fucked so thoroughly by this man. It all drowns in his pressure, his rhythm, the sound of his breathing and the force of his need.
Abruptly, he pulls his cock from inside me, rolls me onto my front, and hauls my hips back until I am on all-fours, exposed and helpless.
I gasp, trying to find purchase.
He presses his hand between my shoulders,forcing my chest into the sheets. I can’t see him, but I feel him. Feel every supreme atom—his body, his hunger, his power, his love—collide into the centre of me when he enters me again.
He leans over, his lips brushing my ear. “When you doubt yourself, little deer. You doubt me.”
I shake my head into the pillow. “No, Sir. I trust you. With everything. I do.”
“But you don’t,” he growls, fucking me hard. I gasp and moan, my breath catching in time with every thrust. “By doubting yourself, you doubt my decisions. I chose you. To be my wife. To be the mother of my children. To be my fucking air and breath! Do not doubt me.”
I clench my teeth. “Yes, Sir.”
He angles his hips lower, taking my pleasure from simmering to thundering intensity. My entire body shudders, nerves singing and screaming at the same time. Where there is pleasure and surrender, there is also an edge of pain teeming out of reach—an erotic threat.
I come hard and long, my pussy muscles rippling around his cock, causing him to thicken and spill inside me.
“Fuck,” he bites out.
And he’s right. He’s always right—doubting myself is doubting him. I sob into the pillow, and he growls in approval, the sound shaking through my spine and into my chest.
