"Fuck, you’re perfect," he rasps, and his voice is thick with hunger. "Look how tight you are for me. Already soaked and waiting for me." His tongue curls against my slick heat, slow and deliberate, drawing lazy circles around my clit that set fire to every nerve.
"Bore?" he repeats, dragging that single word through me like a blade. I can’t help the scream clawing its way up my throat, but he clamps a hand over my belly, pinningme so hard I can’t move. Pleasure and pain coil together, too bright, too feral. When I try to wrench away, his palm flattens, keeping me in place while his breath brushes warm against my core, patient as a predator stalking its prey.
"Your pussy tastes so good," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against my flesh. "You’re drenched, so wet for me."
When he asks again, "Still boring?" his grin is crooked, his eyes are fixed on my trembling body as if it’s the greatest puzzle he’s ever solved. My answer comes in a silent scream of muscle and bone. One of my fists digs into the pillow, and the other presses against my clenched teeth to stave off any sound. He works me with the precision of a master locksmith: mouth, fingers, each thrust and flick measured, calculated, proving how well he’s studied every inch of me. Every stroke strips away who I used to be until I don’t even remember my own name.
He buries his face between my thighs, voice muffled as he demands, "Say my name."
I’m guttural. I’m raw. I’m half breath, half instinct.
"Stephano."
When he orders, "Again," I don’t hesitate.
I scream, "Fuck, Stephano!"
Coppery sweat and desperate heat flood the room. He homes in on my tremors, relentless and unwavering, until my limbs shudder beneath him. The white-hot crescendobuilds behind my ribs. When he nips the inside of my knee, my vision clouds. Rage and lust flare; part of me wants to shatter his jaw, to drag him to the edge alongside me. Instead, I whisper, "Please, Stephano," my voice splintered, each please a raw sob.
"Not yet," he growls, moving up my body, his lips finding my nipples, sucking and biting until I’m nearly crying from the pleasurable torture. His hands knead my breasts, thumbs circling my peaks until they’re hard and aching. "You’ll grab my cock and milk it beautifully," he promises, his voice a dark whisper.
Then he uses his fingers, plunging them inside me, twisting and curling until the world around me fractures. My climax sears through me like lightning. I’m certain I’m tearing apart and being reborn at the same time. I clutch his hair, yank him up to taste the bitter salt of myself on his lips, brutal and honest. The wave crashes through me, leaves me shaking and spent, and laughter bubbles out—hollow, triumphant—because after this, nothing else matters.
I'm wrong. So, so wrong.
The after matters very much. Especially when he turns me around, putting me on my hands and knees, and positions himself behind me. "Bore?"
He slaps my ass so hard, it stings. The pain moves through me, followed by a throb in my pussy that makes me see stars.
"Fuck!" I push out.
He grabs my hips, still mindful not to touch the bandage by my side, and brutally and mercilessly plunges into me. More stars dance in front of my vision. My clit throbs so hard, tears gather in my eyes. He’s spreading my walls so wide I think he’ll split me down the seam. The first thrust is all force, no warning, the feel of him hitting deep—deeper than anyone ever has. He fucks forward so hard I lurch, hands splaying against the cheap satin sheets. His cock is a battering ram, every inch staking a claim. I jerk with the power of it, can’t get my breath back, can only gasp, "Fuck, Stephano!"
He yanks me up by the hair so my spine bows. "That's right, say my name," he growls.
"Stephano."
He’s merciless. "No. Try again."
My mouth opens on nothing. Then he slams in, and for a second, all I see is white. "Stephano!" I scream, and it feels stupid, theatrical, but he laughs—God, the sound of it, all teeth and hunger.
"That's right. Good girl. Say it like you mean it."
"Stephano," I cry again, and he rewards me with a hand sliding to my throat, not choking, just letting me know he could. Every thrust pushes the word up from my lungs. He quickens, hips snapping, the sharp slap of bodies echoing off tile. He’s so thick I swear I can feel him from everywhere, like there’s not a part of me left that isn’t tuned to him.
He leans so close I feel the heat of his chest on my back, his lips at my ear. "You know what I like about you?" His voice is dark silk. "You bleed, and you rut, and you fight like hell. No whining. No mercy. I could fuck you forever."
He punctuates his words with a deep, scraping push that brings tears to my eyes. I whine, almost feral, and grind back against him. He doesn’t let me move on my own—he’s completely in control, hands branding my hips with every pulse. My legs shake, my body's gone loose, wrecked by too much sensation.
"Look at you," he grunts, his voice somewhere between pride and threat, "ruined and beautiful. Take it. Take all of me. Every goddamn inch."
He pounds into me, his pace never falters, and the pressure keeps building, too much, more than I thought a body could contain. Each thrust punches a fractured sound from my throat. He’s hitting something inside that feels like lightning and drowning. What is that? How is it possible? I want to claw the bed, but all I can do is brace and try not to fall apart.
When I start to come apart anyway, trembling from hands to knees, he slows just enough to let me feel the tease of it. "Not yet," he says, even as his thumb finds my clit. He circles it with ruthless precision. "You finish when I say. Not before."
"Fuck—fuck, please?—"
"Not. Yet."
