She shifts and turns to look at me, and it strikes me how possessive I am already of her. I love the bright sparkle in her eye, the concern in them for me, and she shakes her head and says with a slight hesitation, “What or who stole your heart, Joseph?”
“Who says I have a heart?”
I twist her hair in my fingers, loving how soft it is, and without warning, I pull her roughly toward me, crushing her words inside, claiming her lips in a far more interesting way than conversation.
I don’t relent for ages, enjoying silencing the questions, making my excuses for not answering them. Only once I’m certain her lips are swollen and bruised from my rough treatment do I pull away and nod toward the door.
“You’re right, we should clean up. If I’m right, we will have guests, and I really should prepare for that.”
“Guests?”
Her eyes are bright, her hair tousled, and her lips swollen, and I don’t believe I have ever witnessed such beauty before.
She appears immune to the fact that she is naked, her perfect breasts tantalizingly close, and as I reach out and run my thumb around the nipple, her small groan alerts me to endless possibilities as I teach her what letting go really involves.
“We should leave.” I add, almost to myself, and she nods, her breathing ragged as she whispers, “We should.”
Images of her broken virginity lying between her thighs cause a sudden rush of blood to my head and my cock. It’s suddenly the most important thing in my life to be inside this woman again, and I spin her around, pushing her legs apart, holding her down as I growl, “But first.”
As I push into her, her sudden groan matches mine as I dance in the ruin of her slayed innocence, celebrating the fact I have a new hobby to enjoy and I love how I never saw it coming.
CHAPTER 27
TIFFANY
Iam damned to hell, and yet I wouldn’t change a thing. As it turns out, sex is addictive, and when Joseph pushed inside me for the second time, I was desperate for it.
Despite the fact that my pussy is on fire, my insides scorched and ripped apart, he is right, pain is pleasure in this instance and knowing I bring him pleasure is strangely thrilling.
He is in deep, hard, and with purpose, and this time I savor the moment knowing I can cope with it. It’s not that hard or scary. It’s natural, a pleasure even.
This time, I grip his hair and pull him in deeper, groaning as my tits rub against his hard chest. Dragging out my pleasure, taking control of the situation, empowered by the fact that I can do something that always terrified me in the past.
I am controlling a man who is an enigma. Dispassionate, cold, cruel and yet beautifully ugly inside. He has a kind soul that he refuses to acknowledge, and it appears when least expected, like salve on a burn.
It doesn’t take long to jump off the edge into oblivion, his skill as a lover steering me through the unknown journey. I cryout as my soul shatters into pieces, his roar of release strangely satisfying to me.
This time it’s more urgent, almost in haste and as he bites down hard on my neck, a delicious shiver of pain ripples through my body, waking it up, recharging the adrenalin. He pushes in deeper, his climax my reward as he thrusts faster, harder, violently even, draining him of his power, my body a mere vessel for his pleasure.
I’m good with that. I want it even because one thing’s certain. Joseph Ravera is hiding a great deal of pain, and it’s tearing him apart inside.
With a growl,he pulls out, with a low ‘fuck’ and lies panting on his back, his breathing hot and heavy, tension filling the air. It’s not because of me. I understand that because I’m merely the spectator observing his struggle.
I lie beside him, leaving him space because it’s obvious he is waging war with himself right now.
Once again, it feels awkward, and so I say timidly, “I’ll um, well, clean up.”
I make to leave, and he snatches my wrist, pulling me down beside him but utters no words.
It’s as if he doesn’t want me but also can’t bear to be alone, and I lie awkwardly beside him, my mind racing as fast as my heart.
His grip on my wrist is tight, almost painful, and we must lie here for many minutes before his grip relaxes and his voice is cold as he whispers, “You’re right. We should clean up.”
As soon as he releases me, I waste no time in leaving, not turning once as I head for the door.
The moment I’m in the bathroom, I lock the door, leaning heavily against the wood, wondering what the hell just happened.
It’s as if he couldn’t bear for me to leave but wanted to be alone. I kind of know how that feels, and it hurts me inside.
