I bite my tongue, spin, grab the heaviest book on the nightstand and hurl it at his head.
“Fuck,” he grunts, ducking smoothly, and I bolt.
The guest floor is empty; he swore it would be. The Callaghans never use this part of the mansion. I fly down the hallway, bare feet silent on the runner, heart slamming against my ribs. I dodge the main stairs and shove open the first door I see. Another bedroom, pitch black. Perfect.
I drop to the floor and wiggle under the bed, pressing my hand over my mouth to quiet my panting.
His footsteps are slow. He pauses outside the door. I see the shadow of his shoes in the sliver of light underneath.
The door creaks open.
He steps inside. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes, deep and steady, like he can smell me.
My pulse is a war drum.
He circles the bed once. Twice.
Then one huge hand clamps around my ankle and yanks.
I scream, half in terror, half in thrill, as he drags me out like I weigh nothing. I kick, claw, twist, but he’s a mountain. He flips me to my back, straddles my hips, pins both my wrists above my head with one hand. His weight settles, heavy, and I can feel exactly how hard he is.
“Fuck,” he growls, voice so deep it vibrates through my bones, “you make such gorgeous prey.”
With his free hand he drags his zipper down just enough. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking, and my mouth waters instantly.
“Open,” he orders, rough and possessive.
I obey before my brain catches up, lips parting, tongue ready.
He fists my hair, tilts my head back until my throat is one long vulnerable line, and slides between my lips in one slow, claiming thrust. The groan he lets out is wrecked, animal, and I feel fresh wetness soak straight through my panties.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, hips rolling slow, savouring every inch of my mouth. “You feel so fucking good.”
His thrusts turn brutal, hips snapping with a rhythm that steals my air. He drives deep, hitting the back of my throat, and I gag hard, eyes watering instantly. He fists my hair tighter, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.
“I love hearing you gag on my cock,” he rasps, voice shredded with lust, and slams deeper. I swirl my tongue desperately, worshipping every thick inch, and his head snaps back, a broken groan ripping from his chest. “Fuuuck.”
God, he’s so big, huge, thick, stretching my jaw until it aches in the sweetest way. He holds himself there, buried to the root, cutting off my air completely. Panic flares, and I thrash beneath him, nails scraping his thighs.
“Easy, trouble,” he soothes, thumb stroking my cheek even while he owns my throat. “Relax for me.”
I force my body to soften, to trust. When the tears stop spilling, he eases back just enough for one desperate breath. “One more time,” he murmurs, eyes wild but gentle underneath. “Hold your breath. Tongue out, baby.”
I obey instantly, my tongue flat, throat open, and he slides home again. This time I take him. All of him and my lungs burn, stars burst behind my eyes, and still I stay soft, perfect, his.
He pulls out slowly and hauls me up for a kiss that tastes like sin and worship. His tongue claims my mouth the same way his cock just claimed my throat.
Then he’s lifting me, carrying me back to our bedroom like I’m weightless. The second the door clicks shut, my heart tries to climb out of my chest.
“I don’t want to do it here,” I whisper, cheeks on fire.
He stops, brow furrowing. “It?”
“The… anal thing.” The words tumble out tiny and mortified. “I don’t want—”
He silences me with the softest kiss to my forehead. “We won’t, baby. Not until you beg me for it.”
Relief and lust crash together so hard I laugh, shaky and wet. He smirks, wicked, and drags my jeans down my legs in one impatient tug. “But I still need to be buried in this warm, greedy little cunt.”
