“Whatever. Are you gonna fuck me, or should I go? There’s a victory party that?—”
In a swift motion, he flips me onto my stomach and cages me in with his body. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re fucking mine.”
Sticking my ass out, I hope that’s enough of a sign for him to stick his cock in me. I don’t want to beg tonight or ask. I just want him to take me. Even if he’s low-key making me. I need this. Need him. But I also don’t want him at the same time. I want to shove him away, make him fight me.
He backs up. The bed dips behind me. A thick thumb pushes its way inside. I cry out. It’s the best thumb in the world. I haven’t done anything but play with my own dick for weeks.
“Look at your ass, begging for it.” Goddamn him. I’m not even trying to beg for it. How have I become so obsessed withone man—the wrong man? “Your body knows it’s mine. Let’s hear you say it.”
I won’t. I won’t, I won’t, I fucking won’t.
But there’s lube and more fingers and then his cock, and I’m undone. I bite my lip in half to keep the words in, only desperate moans and cries getting out as the head of his cock beats a ruthless pattern against my prostate.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“No.”
He growls, fucking me harder as if that will drill it into me better.
“Say it.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Which is pretty damn funny when you think about it, seeing as he’s actively fucking me.
Tate doesn’t find me amusing at all. His teeth sink hard into the flesh where my neck meets my shoulder. I scream. There’s wetness—his saliva and my hot blood. He does it again, and again, and again, until I must look like some of Beck’s old hockey sticks. Don’t ask me how they get chewed up, but they fucking do.
There’ll be bruises all over my body from his eagerness, and with the way he’s fucking me, it’ll feel like he’s in me for days. My shoulder’s already throbbing with his teeth marks, exactly what I want—what I need—to survive more silence.
But then he slows down. I can almost hear the cogs of his mind turning. Shit.No.I fucking know better. The bastard always gets what he wants. Somehow, I admire that about him, even when it’s from me.
I’m flipped again, this time to face him, stare into his eyes so they can lie to me some more. He teases his cock back inside me as I spread unprompted. His ever-eager whore. Wanting that cock of his more than I need dignity.
Or pride.
Or even a conscience.
He fucks me slowly, in a way that could be mistaken for loving. Even his body language, the way he moves with me, cataloging my breath changes, making sure my eyes are locked on his. He leans toward my ear like he’s going to tell me a secret.
“You’re mine, dollface.” His hips pick up speed, but never go too hard or too fast, maintaining the slowest of burns.
“I hate you. Hate you so much.”
“Hate me all you want, owning you is sweeter that way.”
My balls feel as if they’re pulling away from my body, pleasure curling low in my belly. The tears are sharp, but still hot enough to choke on. He’s right. I can deny it, bite it back all I want, but there’s only one truth.
“Yes. I’m yours, Tate. Just yours.”
“Fuck. Fuck, I’m gonna—” His cock pulses, and he fills me so full that cum leaks with his cock still inside me. I follow, orgasm overtaking me, blacking out for a flash. My eyes flutter open. I didn’t know they’d closed. Tate’s head is on my chest—he’s timing my breaths and heartbeats again, isn’t he?—and there’s a weight around my finger.
I hold it up in the winter moonlight. Wedding ring. I flex and extend my hand. Gotta make sure it’s real and not a figment of my imagination, and then I find his ring hand, threading my fingers with his. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bark at me for touching him.
Tate wasn’t okay tonight. Maybe he never is. Do I bring him peace? He used me like a whore, and now I’m his teddy bear.
Teddy whore?
Don’t know if that works, but he needs me as much as I need him. I know it, even the fucking person at the front desk knows it.
But will he ever let himself admit it?
