My hand still covers her mouth, her words don’t interest me. I can hear her body loud enough. If she truly doesn’t want me inside her, she can broadcast it there because those are the only signals worth reading.
My finger hooks at the last packet, her muscles squeezing, wanting to push me out but instead drawing me deeper. Her hips shift, tilting towards me as she arches her back.
“That’s it. That’s all you have to do. Lie there like the good girl you are while my fingers stretch you out and explore inside you”—she gasps, a quick suction against my palm—“rubbing against you, and to prove you don’t want me inside you, just… don’t… come.”
The spasms start on that last word, her body betraying her desire. She expels the last packet, bearing down like I told her back at the start, back when this insanity of touch and heat and crawling need wasn’t on my radar.
I roll fully on top of her, hand still across her mouth, shoving her thighs wide when she tries to close her legs, shoving at the waistband of my sweatpants, freeing my cock and guiding it to her entrance.
She wriggles her body against me until I’m delirious. I don’t know if she’s trying to excite me or push me away.
All I know is my reaction, exulting in the rush of frantic pleasure.
The bed jumps as she yanks at her bonds, twisting and turning and trying to break free. I dip the head of my cock into her, and the vibrations of her mouth against my hand finally connect deep in my brain, hauling at me, trying to bring me back from the edge.
But I’m so close, she’s so warm and tiny, squirming against me.
Then her hips tilt, drawing me an inch further inside and I’m lost.
CHAPTERFOUR
NADIA
His cock is fucking enormous.
I lurch straight from panic that he’s about to violate me further to panic that he’ll literally split me in two and leave me to bleed out on this dirty mattress in this godforsaken house.
In my struggle, I push against him, trying to expel him. Instead, he slides in deeper and what sort of bullshit design flaw is that?
He makes a moan, low in the back of his throat. Loud enough that the vibrations of it pass through his skin to mine, sending out a raft of tingles.
My pelvis tilts, then draws back as he lodges, stuck, too massive to fit inside a channel that’s seen more speculums than penises, especially in the more-than-a-decade since my husband gave his last thrust inside me.
He tries to force himself deeper, making a disgruntled noise when he can’t, then he withdraws, only to ease forward, trying again. This time, it goes further, sending a wave of pleasure responses shuddering through my twitching thighs.
It means nothing. You don’t want this.
And I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.
I definitely shouldn’t be wishing my hands were free so I could plunge them deep into his golden hair, dragging his mouth to meet mine.
I shouldn’t.
A burst of outraged anger hits me.
Why is it my role to suffer through the embarrassment of shoving those drug pellets inside me, suffer through their removal, then scold myself at the first hit of pleasure?
If he’s doing this to hurt me, to punish me, to frighten me, then stuff that. Why should he get to dictate how I feel, how I take it? If he wants to violate me, assault me, why shouldn’t I take whatever sweetness I can? What bigger fuck you can I give than to welcome, toencourage, his attack?
And the truth is it doesn’t feel like an attack.
Not as he hesitates, seeing my wince as he pushes forward, so he withdraws, resting. The way he moves my hips, moveshis,then tries again at an angle that instead of feeling like I’m being ram-raided, sends shivers racing up inside me, sends a lubricating flood of welcome out to greet his oversized cock.
An attack would be brutal, dehumanising. Something I’ve been on the receiving end of so many times before.
I’ve seen the anger, thevindictivenesson my husband’s face a dozen times over.
Nothing like the expression of rapture, of need, of gratitude on the moulded features of this beautiful, young blond man.
