I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’tspeak. The only sound I could manage was a helpless moan, high and broken, my hips tilting back into his touch as if begging.
“Oh, I know, my love,” he rasped. “I feel it. Feel how desperate you are. How tight you’re already squeezing my fingers like the slutty little bride you are for me.”
And as if my body loved being called that—loved the condescension, the claim, the shame and the worship wrapped up in one—my walls pulsed around him. Tightened. Welcomed him deeper.
“You want to be fucked by your husband, yeah?”
His fingers curled into that sweet spot deep inside me, dragging along my walls in a rhythm so perfect my toes curled against the tile floor. My hands spasmed against the bedding, useless and twitching. The orgasm started to crest, high and helpless, rising in my throat like a plea.
“Yes—oh God, yes, please?—”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping like gravel on silk. “I promise I’ll make love to you later, Auri. I’ll worship you like you deserve. But right now?” He thrust his fingers deeper, andI choked on a sob. “Right now, I need to know I can take you rough. I need to feel you come apart around my cock. I need to claim what’s mine.”
I dropped my head to the mattress, hips arching, thighs trembling, the heat building so violently it hurt. I whimpered, soft and broken, lost in it, drunk on him. He hadn’t even fucked me yet, and I was already unraveling.
He pulled his fingers free and dragged them down my thigh, slick and shining, as he reached for the tartan ribbon still beside us on the bed.
“Say it,” he ordered, voice low, guttural, ruined.
“Use it,” I sobbed. “Use the ribbon. Use me to take care of your needs. I want to be your relief. Your release. Your wife.”
That was all he needed. He hauled my wrists behind my back and knotted them tightly. The fabric bit into my skin, not cruel, but certain. Binding. Like him.
“Mine,” he growled. “Still mine. Always mine.”
The knot sealed tight. A promise made. A promise kept. And in that moment—bound, trembling, unraveling—I knew I was lost to Callum Fraser in the most beautiful way possible.
He shoved my panties down to mid-thigh with one hand, just far enough to bare me completely. The other curled tight around my hip as he lined himself up, no teasing, no warning. Just pure, unfiltered need.
Then Callum paused. I whimpered, rocking my hips back, desperate for friction. Forhim. But his voice dropped, low and painfully tender. “Color, baby?”
“Green,” I breathed without hesitation. “Always green.”
“And scale?” he asked, his tone curling into a grin I couldn’t see butfeltdeep in my bones. “Where are we at, Mrs. Fraser?”
I moaned. “Nine.”
He chuckled darkly. “Let’s see how high I can take you.”
And then he thrust. One hard, hungry, unrelenting stroke.
I broke, and I wasgone, climbing straight to the edge, teetering on the precipice as he filled me in one blinding surge. His piercing dragged against the tight, aching walls of my pussy until he was buried deep, so deep I felt the cool pressure of metal kiss my cervix. The stretch burned, the pressure overwhelmed, and yet, I wantedmore.
I cried out, face pressed to the sheets, eyes rolling back, tears already stinging as my body convulsed around him. My wrists twitched helplessly behind me. My legs shook. I gasped his name into the mattress like a prayer ripped from my chest.
“Fucking hell,” he bit out behind me, voice thick with thinly-veiled restraint, both hands gripping my hips now like handles. Like he could drag me closer, deeper, into the bone. “You feel like sin and salvation, baby.”
I whimpered as my body clenched around him, thighs trembling violently. The front of the dress dipped low enough that my nipples scraped raw against the silk and the sheets with every brutal thrust—no bra, no mercy, no barrier between me and the way he was ruining me.
He leaned over me, one hand fisting in my hair, forcing my spine to arch, the other tightening the ribbon between my bound wrists to change the angle. Deeper, fuller, devastating.
I melted instantly, body obeying before my mind could catch up, arching into his control like it was instinct. Like he was conducting me, my every movement, every sound, and I was the instrument built to sing only for him.
“You said your vows,” he whispered in my ear. “You called me your husband. You took my last name.”
“Je suis à toi,” I gasped, words spilling broken and desperate. “I’m yours—fuck—I’myours.”
He was gone.
