Suddenly, I’m pressed against a tree, the bark rough through the thin silk of the robe. I look up and…oh wow, look at him. Tight and hard and furious. And big. Huge. With his bulk, he could overpower me in a second. Without effort.
My back arches, my shoulders pushing harder against the wood, my aching chest seeking more contact with his body. More pressure. More pain, more pleasure.
Our movements come in quick, hushed bursts. I twist to get out, his fist catches my wrists, traps them above me, his other hand circles my throat, pinning me in place.
I still move, though, I still struggle. Hell, the struggle’s half the fun. It’s a game of chess, where every move I make forces him to counter, move, counter. I thrash, he boxes me in. My knee lifts, fully prepared to kick him where it hurts, but he knocks it aside with his, grinds his pelvis against mine.
His erection’s stiff, massive. I remember that. The size of him, from last night. The way his tip barely breached me and the stretch almost hurt.
Almost. Less than spanking. Although, if he’d thrust in, I’d have gotten a bite of that pain I can’t seem to get enough of.
“You want this, you little brat?” he whispers close to my ear, then hunches lower, takes the lobe between his lips, and bites me.
The shock’s immediate, electric, thrilling.
I pull away just so he’ll bite harder and, goddamn him, he does. He does. It’s a struggle, a fight, a battle, and I want this so badly, I’ll do anything for it to last.
Anything at all.
“Get off,” I mutter, my voice a raw, angry bark.
“You safe wording?”
I open my mouth and close it again.
Zion, the bastard, just laughs, sounding nothing like himself and, at the same time, like the purest, most elemental version.
“Get the fuck off me, you—”
Teeth bared, he lowers his head and tears my bikini to one side, scraping my skin as he bares my breast to the world. Without support, it hangs heavy, but I don’t care. Not in this place. Not in this moment, with this man. Everything my body does is right, meant to be, somehow. I feel this when he tears the other cup off and digs his face between my breasts and growls like a rabid beast and then goes wild on me, all snarling, snapping, biting the thickest part of me, then moving and doing it again, again, to my nipple.
Oh, god, that hurts. Another bite. More pain, but it’s blissful, pulling at my center, my pelvis, which I’m tilting forward, trying to get the friction back from his lower half. I want that. I want his mouth, his cock. No. Not want. Ineedit. More than air, I need to be taken, covered, filled. Pounded to oblivion.
He sways back—the opposite of what I’m begging for—his eyes flicking over all the parts of me he’s splayed wide open, reaches out and slaps my breast, right where he’s just tortured it with his teeth. I groan, head falling forward, my whole body boneless. I’d be on the ground if he wasn’t holding me up. I stare at the indentations his teeth have left in my skin. I want to touch them, but I can’t.
“You’re a little fuckin’ brat, Twy.” He reaches down. I follow the movements, dully, almost from outside, an observer, watching, wanting. Taking, taking, taking. He leans in. My face turns toward him. Of course it does. It always will. “You’re my little fuckin’ brat.Mine.”
That word’s said with more steel than I’ve ever heard from him. On screen or off.
“This.” He cups me between the legs, his shoulder now pinning me to the tree, his body weight so easily holding mine. “This is mine.”
My bathing suit’s shoved aside again—this time not for show or whatever that was back there, but for him. Purely him. There’s something selfish about the way he does it. Something impatient and mean and, god, why do I love being used like this?
“Nobody touches this but me, got it?” His fingers slide up my wet slit and back down, spreading me open, wide. “And this.” Faster than I can keep track of in my zoned-out state, he reaches up and smacks my tit again, makes it jiggle, makes it ache. With a pained groan, he bends over and sucks my nipple into his mouth, then more and more of my breast, like he’ll consume every bit of me he can take. I swear he almost chokes on me before drawing back and then—
Then—oh, this isn’t me to want this, to ache for this, to love it as much as I do—hespitson my breast, as if my body’s not wet enough already.
“Look at this bratty little cunt.” He leans back and I know—Ifeel—how I look. Completely debauched. Destroyed. Bite marks on my skin, my nipples swollen and bruised, shining wet and dripping with spit.
I don’t have time to worry about the people walking by, watching, and reacting—some with approving laughter, some with comments I can’t hear. Some are blank-faced, wide-eyed. None of it matters with his hand between my legs again, rough and bossy, spreading me, flicking my clit, as if it’s an afterthought—or a punishment—and then, oh god, this is what I need.
“Yes, yes, yes yes yes.” It’s a guttural chant, forced from my lungs the way his finger’s forcing its way inside.
Not that it’s hard work, given how soaking and ready I am, but still it’s an intrusion.
He fucks me like this for a few beats—or forever. Not long enough—withdraws and paints my other nipple with my wetness. When he bends and licks it off, his eyes are on me—no, not on me, in me, digging deep, pinning me in place like something sharp and glinting and now I’m dangling here, caught like a fish on a hook. I am ravished and raw and so fucking turned on, I’ll come if he touches me again. I want to. I want that.
I want him to fuck me with his finger and his cock, I want him to tear me apart a little at a time, consume me like something wild.
