“My little hot-headed bitch wants to play?” he said, fisting my hair.“Now you get fucked like one.”
I scrambled to get my hands under me but he was already pulling—hair wrapped around his fist, my head wrenched back until my neck curved and my body had no choice but to follow. I couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t drop my head. Couldn’t do anything but hold the position he had decided on.
His legs moved to bracket mine, trapping them together, and then I felt the blunt head of his cock slip into position.
I didn’t dare move.
And it wasn’t because of his grip on my hair.
I had just slapped the Pakhan of Chernograd. The man who eliminated people for a simple show of disrespect—never mind a blow. Never mind an open palm cracked across his face hard enough to leave a mark. My heart was hammering somewhere in my throat and my lips were already parting to apologise, to offer whatever words might undo the last thirty seconds—
He moved.
His body slammed against my ass and I howled—the sound torn out of me before I could contain it—his entire length sinking into me in one brutal stroke. He hit something deep inside my belly, something that sent a white shock of sensation straight through me, pain and pleasure indistinguishable from one another at that depth.
He slapped my thigh. Hard. Retaliation, precise and deliberate, for my blow.
Then he pulled back and ploughed forward again.
I could feel him rearranging my insides, the stretch of him working deeper with each thrust, my body simultaneously resisting and yielding. I may have cried out for God. I may have cursed him. I genuinely couldn’t be certain which sounds were leaving me and which were still trapped somewhere in my chest.
“No god can come between us,” he snarled against the back of my neck.
He used the fist in my hair to pull me back to meet every thrust, setting the pace he wanted, my body moving on his terms. The problem—the specific, humiliating, unforgivable problem—was that somewhere between the shock and the pain the discomfort began to dissolve into something else entirely. My hips found the rhythm without my permission. My hands tightened on the bedding and I began to rock back, chasing each withdrawal, using the grip I had to meet him.
“You’re not supposed to enjoy this like a damn whore.”
He noticed.
Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
He slapped me again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike landing on already sensitised flesh until it burned—a deep, spreading heat that somehow fed directly back into everything else I was feeling, which was its own particular kind of betrayal.
All I wanted was to tell him not to stop.
But that would push him over the edge.
Or worse—it would give him exactly what he was looking for.
He suddenly yanked my hair, ripping strands from the root as he forced me to my knees. My eyes watered from the pain. He released my hair and clamped his thick forearm around my neck, his other hand biting into my hip.
Then he began my torment all over again.
This time I could feel his muscles working behind me as he hammered into me. My head rolled back, his arm tightened to lock me in place. Even as I struggled to get air into my lungs my hips moved and my ass bounced back and forth, taking everything he had.
“Damn you,” he growled.
Fuck you, I thought, and pushed my hand between my legs, rubbing my clit before pinching it.
The world blurred before my eyes.
It could have been the lack of airflow. It could have been the depth of my orgasm. I honestly couldn’t tell and didn’t particularly care.
