We’re standing too close again. I can feel the heat coming off his body. See the green of his eyes up close. My pulse is racing, but it’s not just anger anymore. It’s the same thing I felt on our wedding night. The same pull I’ve been fighting for two weeks.
I hate him. I hate everything he represents. But my body doesn’t care about that.
“Let go,” I say again, but my voice comes out quieter this time.
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Make me.”
I slam both palms into his chest with every ounce of strength I have. He staggers back one step. I follow fast, shoving him again until his hips hit the edge of the desk. Papers slide and scatter. I grab the front of his shirt and yank him down so our mouths crash together. I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
He growls into my mouth and spins us in one brutal motion. My back slams against the desk. The edge digs into my ass.
One hand fists my hair at the nape and yanks my head back so my throat is exposed. The other rips the neckline of my dress. Fabric tears. Cool air hits my breasts. My nipples tighten instantly. He palms one roughly, pinching the peak until I hiss through my teeth.
“You want to play rough?” His voice is low and dangerous. “Fine. But you’re going to take every fucking inch.”
I claw at his arms, nails digging in deep enough to draw blood. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he shoves my dress up to my waist, hooks his fingers in my underwear, and yanks them down my thighs in one violent pull. The lace snaps. He kicks my feet apart wider.
I reach between us, fumbling with his belt. The buckle clatters. I shove his pants open, wrap my hand around his cock, and squeeze hard. He’s thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. I stroke him once, rough and fast. His hips jerk forward into my grip.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice strained.
I line him up and guide him to my entrance. No warning. I sink down at the same time he thrusts up. He spears into me in one brutal stroke. The stretch burns, sharp and overwhelming. I gasp, nails raking down his shoulders through his shirt. He groans low, buried to the hilt.
For a second, we freeze like that, breathing hard, locked together.
Then the fight starts again.
I rock my hips forward, trying to set the pace, trying to ride him the way I want. He lets me for three strokes. Then his hands clamp my waist and lift me like I weigh nothing. He spins me around, bends me over the desk, and kicks my legs wider. My palms slap down on scattered files. Pens roll to the floor.
He fists my hair again, yanking my head back so I have to arch. His other hand grips my hip so hard I know it will bruise. He drives back in from behind, deeper this time, hitting so far inside I cry out.
“Still think you can control this?” he growls against my ear. His hips snap forward, relentless. The desk creaks under us. “Your cunt is soaked. Gripping me like it never wants to let go. You hate me, but you’re wet for your husband.”
“Shut up,” I snarl. I push back against him, meeting every thrust, trying to take him deeper on my own terms. My body betrays me. Every slam sends sparks through my core. I clench around him hard, wanting to make him lose it first.
He laughs, dark and rough. “That’s it. Fight me. Make me work for it.” He yanks my hair harder, forcing my spine to bow. His free hand slides around to my front, fingers finding my clit and rubbing in rough circles. Pleasure coils vicious and fast. I buck against him, cursing under my breath.
“You’re going to come,” he says, voice thick. “You’re going to come all over my cock while you hate every second of it. Say my name when you do.”
“Fuck you, Luca.”
He thrusts harder, punishing. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room. My thighs tremble. My toes curl against the carpet. I bite my own arm to muffle the moan building in my throat.
He pulls my head back farther, mouth at my ear. “Say it again. Say my fucking name, wife.”
I twist, trying to turn in his grip. He lets me spin halfway. I shove him back until he hits the desk again. I climb onto him, straddling his lap, and sink down hard. He groans, hands flying to my hips. I ride him fast and angry, grinding my clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. My nails dig into his neck, leaving red trails.
He surges up, captures my mouth in a bruising kiss. I bite his tongue. He growls and flips us again. My back hits the desk once more. He hooks my legs over his shoulders, folding me open, and drives in so deep my vision blurs.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I glare up at him through the haze. Sweat beads on his forehead. His shirt hangs open. Scratches mark his chest. His eyes are wild.
“You feel that?” He grinds against me, circling his hips so every inch drags against my walls. “That’s me owning you. Every thrust. Every inch. You can scratch. You can bite. You can curse me. But you’re mine now.”
I arch up, meeting him thrust for thrust. “I hate you.”
“Good.” He slams in harder. “Hate me while you come.”
