Bound wrists. Swollen lips. Eyes screwed shut, as if she can't bear to watch.
"Look at me."
Her eyes snap open. Dark with arousal. Dark with fear.
"Watch."
I part her legs with my knee and settle between them. She's open for me. Vulnerable. I free my cock, hard and aching, and press the tip against her entrance. Using the same circle, swirl revolutions I used with my fingers that drove her insane, yesterday. She coats my tip. My cock glistens from the two of us.
Then I stop.
Not to be kind. To be here—in this. The heat of her, tight and unyielding around nothing yet, her thighs trembling against my hips. Her breath comes in short, ragged pulls. Her fingers curl above her head, knuckles straining against the leather.
I hold there. One second. Two. Letting the pressure build until her body shifts—the smallest tilt of her hips, an involuntary arch toward me. She doesn't know she's done it.
But I do.
"Please…" The word tears out of her, half prayer, half curse.
"Say it." I grind against her, a slow, deliberate punishment. "All of it."
She doesn't answer. Her jaw sets hard, her eyes glittering with defiance and need and something she refuses to name.
I shake my head at her defiance. It doesn’t matter. She’s mine and we both know it.
I press forward. Slow. Deliberate. She's tight, unyielding—and I hold her gaze as I push through it. Not in one brutal stroke. Inch by inch, watching every micro-expression cross her face. Her widening eyes. The sharp intake of breath. The moment her body yields and I sink deep, filling her completely.
A cry rips from her throat—sharp, raw, edged with pain. Her body goes rigid beneath me, every muscle locks. Clamps down on me and strangles. She’s so fucking tight. This could kill me. If so, there’s no other way I want to go. I hold myself perfectly still, buried inside her, letting her feel the reality of this. Tears gather in her eyes, but she won't let them fall.
I wait. I want her to feel every second of this shift. The before and the after. The line we just crossed that doesn't uncross.
Her muscles begin to unclench. The rigid shock softens into something quieter—pained acceptance threaded with awareness. I pull back slowly, almost all the way out, then drive back in. She cries out again, but this time it's different. A gasp. Not just pain.
I find a rhythm. Deep. Relentless. Not punishing—owning. Each stroke designed to overwrite every thought in her head until the only thing she knows is me inside her, the weight of me, the scent of me, the sound of my breath against her throat.
And somewhere in the middle of it—the shift happens.
Her head stops thrashing. Her bound hands stop straining. Her hips lift to meet my next thrust, and her eyes open, and forone unguarded second she looks at me. Recognition. Not hatred. Not fear. The pleasure she didn't want, rising through her like a tide she can't hold back.
She hates it. Her jaw clenches even as her back arches. She bites her lip hard enough to bruise rather than let the moan escape. Her mind resists. Her body betrays.
Both exist at the same time. I want both.
"You feel that?" I rasp against her ear. "Your body doesn't lie to me. Even when you do."
The first tremors build around my cock. I shift the angle, driving deeper, hitting her core with relentless precision. She sobs my name—the sound fracturing as her orgasm tears through her. Her inner walls clench around me, and it's too much. My own control shatters. With a final, guttural groan, I empty myself deep inside her, my body shuddering with the force of it.
I don't move.
Not yet.
My forehead drops to hers, both of us wrecked, breath coming in harsh pulls. Her chest rises and falls beneath me—fast, then slower, then fast again, like her body can't decide if it's done. The leather at the headboard lets out a faint creak as her bound wrists go slack. She's stopped fighting it. Stopped fighting everything. Beneath me, she's utterly still.
I stay there long enough to feel her pulse against my chest. Long enough for the heat between us to become weight. Then I pull out of her, reach up, and untie her wrists. I don't move away. I shift onto my side, propped on an elbow, and watch her.
She curls onto her side, facing away from me, pulling her knees to her chest. A single, silent tear escapes and traces a path down her temple into her hair. She doesn't make a sound.
The tear is more damning than any accusation. I won, but I lost.
