"Take it," he growls. "Suck it, Prince. Taste what you bought."
He moves his hips, snapping them forward. He isn't looking at me. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face twisted in a grimace of rage. He uses my mouth like a warm sleeve, grinding into the back of my throat, making me choke. He tastes of salt and hate.
It goes on for what feels like hours. My jaw aches. I can't breathe. Every time I try to inhale, he thrusts deeper.
"That's it," he pants. "Choke on it. You look good like that. Like a whore."
He pulls out abruptly. I gasp for air, coughing, saliva trailing down my chin.
He isn't done.
He hauls me up by my shirtfront. He drags me across the room, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the polished floor. He marches me to the window.
He spins me around and slams me chest-first against the glass. The impact knocks the wind out of me again. The glass is freezing against my skin, a shock after the heat of his body.
"Hands on the glass," he barks.
I hesitate.
He slams his hand into the small of my back, forcing me forward. "Do it!"
I put my hands on the glass. The city is spread out below us—millions of lights, indifferent witnesses.
He rips my shirt open. Buttons pop and scatter across the floor. He tears at my belt, undoing it, and yanks my trousers and briefs down to my thighs. The cool air of the penthouse hits my skin. I feel exposed. Vulnerable in a way I haven't been since I was a child.
"Spread your legs."
I widen my stance. I have no choice. He kicks my ankles apart until I am braced wide.
I hear him spit into his hand. It’s a wet, degrading sound. He reaches down and smears the saliva over my entrance. It’s cold. It’s not enough.
"This is going to hurt," he says against my ear. His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through my spine. "I want it to hurt."
He lines himself up. He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks.
He drives forward.
A scream tears out of my throat. I can't stop it. It feels like being split open with a hot iron. He is too big, and I am too tight. The dry skin tears. The muscle seizes.
"Fuck," he grunts, pushing harder.
He forces his way in. Inch by agonizing inch. I am stretched beyond capacity. I feel full to the point of bursting. The pain is blinding—white-hot flashes behind my eyes.
He bottoms out. His hips slam against my buttocks with a wet, heavy thud.
I hang my head, gasping, my forehead resting against the cold glass. I feel impaled.
He holds still for a moment. He is shaking. I can feel the tremors running through his body, vibrating into mine. He buries his face in the curve of my neck.
"You're mine," he whispers. "Paper says you're mine. Law says you're mine. Now you know it."
He pulls back.
And slams home.
It is agony. It is pure friction. Every thrust is a raw abrasion. He sets a rhythm that is punishing—fast, hard, deep. My forehead bumps against the glass with every impact—thud, thud, thud—a hollow metronome keeping time with my destruction.
"Make a sound," he demands. He reaches around and wraps his hand around my throat, squeezing. "I know you feel this. Scream for me, wife. Let me hear you break."
