Chapter 16 #2
His grasp is violent when his fingers sink into me, bringing my lips an inch from his, his chest so hard up against mine he could be all the breath I can’t take. “It would have changed everything.”
His lips find mine, and it’s so gentle. It’s too gentle.
I can’t do this.
I turn my head away. “You don’t want me.”
“I want you.”
“No.” Tears fall hot down my cheeks as he kisses me. But I’m not crying. I’m not. Not for him. Not for anyone.
“I’m sorry, Marco.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Fuck off, Robin!”
I hate the way he pushes me down. I hate the way he climbs on top of me.
I hate how his fingers rip into my hair, and fuck, I hate the way I crave him.
I hate that my hands dig into his skin, that my dick’s hard for him.
I hate that he’s everything, all at once and already. My one lifeline in this sick place.
I hate how much I want to hate him.
And I hate that I can’t.
He presses kisses to my neck, and my head tilts back for him. He wraps his palm across my cheek, and my head turns to him when he says, “Por eso desprendes el aroma de la luz del sol.” This is why you smell like sunshine.
My soul folds into him. My heart beats for him.
“Por eso me haces sentir la calidez del océano al atardecer.” This is why you feel like the warmth of the ocean at sunset.
He presses his fatally soft, achingly beautiful lips to mine.
“Por eso nunca he podido resistirme a ti.” This is why I could never resist you.
His tongue traces up my cheek, licking the saltwater from my skin. He places both hands either side of my face, too reverent, kissing me, kissing me again. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head against the words, locking them out. Locking him out.
His hand slides down, finding me hard for him, desperate for him, and my body grinds against him, a traitor to my every sense of self-preservation.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He strokes my dick, and I fuck into his hand, sliding my fingers beneath his tunic, digging into the firm flesh of his back. He looks at me through heavy-lidded eyes, darker than I’ve ever seen before. “Was I better than him?”
That sickness, that crushing nausea.
I pull back, my breath caught on the air between us.
His lips slam into mine, his hand fisting my cock harder, so I can’t breathe, can’t think, pleasure and shame and hate and lust and whatever the fuck this is that makes me rip red lines into his skin with my fingernails, pulling him against me.
He growls into my mouth. “Tell me I fuck you better.”
I try to turn away, but he presses a kiss so hard he pins me.
“Tell me.” He works me faster, his cock grinding against my thigh. My hips buck forward for him. “Tell me you loved it.”
“Robin…” I hate the word on my lips—no protest, only a plea for more, more, and more again.
It sends him into a frenzy, kisses, teeth dragging over my neck, his hands tearing at my clothes.
“Tell me.”
“I hate you.”
“Then make me go. Show me. Show me how much you hate me, Marco.” He rips my gown open, the one I put on as a show of defiance, distance, the purple silk of it marking me as something separate from him and the dungeon, from the team, and from everything I once was.
It falls cool and loose at my sides, his hands like fire running over my naked skin, his mouth tasting every inch of me.
I try to rise, and he shoves me down with a violent kiss. I press my hands into his shoulders, and he slams them back against the arm of the lounge so hard it hurts.
Then his hand clamps down on my throat and squeezes.
I could fight. I could knock him off, take all the control back—cave his head in on the side of the coffee table.
But when he releases my wrists, holding me only at the neck, I keep them high over my head where he put them, locking them together, imagining he still has them.
When he licks down the length of my body, my feet curl, imagining he’s tied me in place.
When he closes his hand around my throat, when he takes me in his mouth, he’s all I want. He’s all I’ll want ever again. I need his control. I need to give myself over to him. Just, for once in my life, to let go.
He takes me deep, and it’s the opposite to how he used me in the showers yesterday, but it’s the same. It’s his game, his rules. Only this time, it’s my pleasure he’s chasing, not my punishment.
‘That’s the last time you’ll ever get it.’
My eyes snap open, grounding me in the moment, not the red and raw wound he ripped in me a day ago.
Maybe he doesn’t want me. Maybe he’s like all the others. He’s using me to get ahead in the game.
But the sound that slips out of him, the hungry, soft sound, it’s like Robin. Robin on the floor of the gym when I combed his hair. When his head sank back against my chest. When I held him, and it felt real.
He crawls over the top of me, the weight of his body on mine like a safety net. Eyes dark, fathoms of unspoken pain and longing in their depths, he says only, “Tell me.”
The words catch on my lips, like waking from a nightmare—like not knowing what’s real and what’s imagined. I don’t know where I am anymore. It’s just me and those granite eyes.
“It’s you,” I whisper.
Relief. Relief in his eyes like I’d never have expected, like those words mean anything from me. Like I could trust him after what he said.
He kisses me, a long and loving kiss with that steel hand holding me at the throat, then he goes down again.
It’s different now. It’s possessive, and it’s full of passion—passion like I’ve never felt with another person.
My body’s alight with every movement, and it’s never been like this.
His body shakes, fingers digging into my thigh, drawing tighter around my neck, my dick so hard for him it’s torture.
That gorgeous purr rips from his throat, vibrating all through me.
My fingers tear at the fabric of the lounge, my hips bucking up, and he squeezes my throat.
“Robin,” I rasp.
And tighter he squeezes.
“Robin…”
A cinch of his fingers, and he’s taken my air.
I’m his. I’m his and he’s using me exactly as he wants.
He’s taking me fast and hard, he’s devouring me, he’s forcing pleasure on me like I’ve never experienced.
It builds, like the pressure in my chest, builds and builds, and ecstasy screams through me, desperate to escape, desperate for release, desperate for that one good breath.
White flashes behind my closed eyes. All the world is Robin and that sound—that sound he makes. All the world is Robin and his sexuality, Robin and the taste of his kisses, Robin and the freedom I crave, and Robin…
My hand slides into his silken hair, a growl rips out of him at the touch, and it ends me.
He ends me. The orgasm bursts out of me, he releases my throat, and I gasp fresh air, deep and plentiful into my burning lungs, the pleasure obliterating the pain, a knife edge that multiplies each a thousand times over.
He takes me, all of me, his mouth moving in time with my trembling body, his fingers etching bruises into my thigh. And he takes me. All of me.
Then he spits into the palm of his hand.
His kiss lands on my thigh. A smarting bite follows. I hiss at the pain, and his other hand slaps down on my thigh, rolls me onto my side.
He’s behind me.
Hot cum drips over my ass, his fingers sink into me, and I’m gasping for air again and already. His chest presses hard into my back, his teeth pull at my ear, and he whispers, “Tell me it’s me.”
Teeth on my neck, and there isn’t an inch of skin he won’t mark tonight.
I’ll wear it like a trophy. Every cut and bite and bruise a memory of how much he wanted me to say it again.
He takes a fistful of my hair, presses his dick against me. He toys with me, forcing the tip in, voice low, lips against the shell of my ear. “Tell me…”
Like they have a mind of their own, my fingers curl around his thigh, closing on hard muscle, and I wrench him in.
He fights me, curves his pelvis away, pulls my hair so he can turn my face and force another smarting kiss. He drives two fingers deep into me, and I can’t do a thing to stop the hard breath that escapes my lips. He smothers it, fucking his fingers into me, wrecking me, taking me all to pieces.
When my hand touches his face, it’s not a caress. When the groan ekes out of me, it’s not a plea for more.
He’s made me come. I should kick him out now. I shouldn’t let him.
“Marco,” he rasps, and it slides down my back, fusing in my spine, growing my nerves all anew, all of him spreading through me.
He pulls my ass wide, pressing his cock into me.
“Eres lo mejor que me ha pasado en mucho tiempo. Eres todo lo que quiero.” You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in so long. You’re everything I want.
I let his words drown me, annihilate me, eviscerate me. The sweet sound of his voice, the breath of home. The perfect, hard and unyielding masculinity of him filling me.
Just one night.
“Robin…” I hate that I said his name. I hate that it sounds so broken, like a plea. “Robin…”
“It’s me,” he insists. He fucks into me, hard and enormous and dominating. He kisses me over and over, my cheek, my neck, my lips. “I’m the one you want. Say it.”
A noise that sounds too much like confirmation rumbles in the back of my throat.
“Fuck, Marco.”
The way his hand curves around my ass, squeezes into the muscle, the way his body shudders, the way his lips don’t once stop savoring their press to my skin—it’s all a daydream of softness and beauty and something wrong that has no place here.
This should be sex. It should be cheap and nasty, and I shouldn’t let him do this.
But some stupid, awful part of me grabs hold of the back of his head, twists to him, and I kiss him back.
A hungry moan rips out of him, and he fucks me harder.
He feels like heaven. His legs tangle in mine, his feet press against mine, his thighs wrap me, curling over me.
He’s so firm and so powerful, and so safe. Too safe. “Robin…”
His hand slides around my waist, over my stomach, up to my chest, slow and reverent.
It lands on my heart, pulling me tight against him.
The beat of it rebounds against his wide palm, and he presses his chest into my back, kisses my neck, behind my ear, a shock of ecstasy coursing through my body.
His entire being shakes with every thrust, his enjoyment of me screaming above the shuddering breaths he ghosts across my wet skin, my name whispered over and over on his sweet lips.
My cock, hard again, begs for his touch, but his hand moves upward instead, settles back on my throat.
“You’ll forgive me.” His breath comes commanding as he sinks into me, takes his pleasure from me, forces it into me.
“You’ll choose me.” His fingers wrap tighter, squeezing the air out of me. “I’m taking you as mine.”
My soul disintegrates.
It falls out of me, the lot of it, a long and brutal and broken confession, all in our mother tongue. “I knew you from that first day. I knew you were Atrean born. I knew you as mine, and all I wanted was to keep you alive. I wanted you in my arms, and I can’t, Robin. This place. This awful place…”
“Marco…”
He keeps his iron control of me, and he fucks me like he owns me.
The possessive fire of his eyes yesterday comes back on me, the anger and the violence, and it’s still all there, just beneath the surface, beneath the clasp of his hand, but today he chooses to worship me with it.
Today he’s Robin, the Robin I know inside, whose heart I’ve seen into.
Whose heart I never should have seen into.
“Te elijo como mío,” he rasps. I take you as mine. And the orgasm comes for me, hard and fast, pleasure tearing through every vein and nerve and tendon, his broken voice like a song against my cheek. “Te elijo como mío.”
A promise I want to believe to the very depths of my soul.
His fingers burn into my thigh. He slams into me, coming deep and hard, his grip so tight on my throat I can barely breathe.
But I don’t need it. Not ever again.
All I need are his lips, his hand stroking over my hair, and his husky promise: “Te elijo como mío.”