He pulls back for a second, and I hear the wet sound of him spitting into his palm before he coats himself. He rubs the wetness over his length, making him glisten in the low light, then drags his slicked fingers over my entrance and coats the way. And then, I feel his thick cock against my ass.
He thrusts in slowly, giving me time to adjust. This is something I have never done before, and the intensity is overwhelming at first—a sharp pressure that makes me feel like I’m being torn apart, despite his attempts to keep things slick.
He moves with a slow, deliberate patience, letting my body gradually stretch and acclimate to him. As he continues, the initial tension gives way to a different kind of sensation. He seems to notice the shift, his movements becoming more purposeful and deep. My body rocks back instinctively, aching with both frustration and desire.
The hand on my nipple drags down, slipping between my thighs, two fingers moving inside my pussy pumping simultaneously alongside his cock in my asshole. I feel like I am exploding all at once as he is taking control of every inch of my insides. All I can focus on is him and how badly I want it; how badly I want more.
“Fuck, you take me so well,” he says, leaning close enough that his breath fans my neck as he pumps both my cunt and my asshole harder. “Now, cum for me, Princess.”
As if waiting for permission, at his order, my body convulses around him as my climax hits, leaving me gasping and utterly undone.
“Good girl,” he whispers. A wave of shame and pride washes over me at the praise. I’ve never been this exposed, never let anyone take this much of me, yet here I am… completely vulnerable and at his mercy. It’s terrifying, but I don't want it to stop.
***
The sheets are still tangled around my legs, my breath uneven, but I know what comes next. So I brace myself for Dominic to leave…Instead, he wraps his arm around my waist, dragging me against him until my spine presses into his chest.
Slowly, I turn to face him, searching his face.
His gaze holds mine for a long moment, but he doesn’t say anything. I try not to read any meaning into it. I don’t want to make it seem like something it isn’t. Maybe this is just post-sex clarity.
“Are you okay?” he finally says after a moment of silence. He’s asking about my arm.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel an ache, I do need pain killers from the exertion, yet I feel lighter than I have in weeks. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“It is not your place to tell me what to worry about,” he says with a straight face, and for a second, I almost laugh.
“You just can’t be civil. Can you?” A small laugh breaks my words.
Needing a distraction, my eyes fall to his chest. I trace the lines and symbols inked on it. “Will you tell me about them?” My question sounds more like a plea, and I hold my breath, thinking he won’t respond, but to my surprise, he does.
“Which?”
My finger drifts over a dagger at his ribs. “This one.”
He glances down. “First man I ever killed. I marked myself so I’d never forget how easy it is to take a life.”
I swallow, but keep going, brushing over the black crown across his collarbone. “And this?”
His mouth twists into something close to disdain. “My father. He thought he was invincible.”
I spend the next few minutes asking about the rest, and he tells me, giving me pieces of his life. Some make me laugh in spiteof myself. Others make my skin crawl. But all of them draw me deeper into him.
Until my hand stills, right over his heart…on the letters ‘LOVE’ engulfed in flames and dripping blood. The look in his eyes makes my throat tighten. But I ask anyway. “What does this one mean?”
It’s like I’ve pulled him back into a memory he’s spent years burying. His jaw tightens, and a forlorn shadow falls over his features.
“My mother,” he says finally. “I got it after she died.”
“Tell me about her,” I say after moments of hesitation.
For the longest time, he says nothing. Then, he opens the nightstand drawer by his side...bringing out a photo frame. He brushes off the dust from it before handing it to me.
It’s a picture of a younger-looking Dominic and a woman—his mother. She’s gorgeous, dark hair, eyes that feel alive even on paper, and a warm smile. Dominic definitely takes after her in looks.
“She was everything,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Strong. Stubborn. She would fight the world with her bare hands if it meant protecting the people she loved.” His jaw flexes, and he swallows hard. “But love didn’t save her. It killed her.”
I look from the picture to him, my chest tightening. “What happened?”
