Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lina
His mouth crashed down on mine again before I could think, before I could breathe, before I could remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea. His hands were everywhere, rough, demanding, claiming every inch of me like he was trying to burn the memory of my body into his palms all over again.
I should have stopped him. Should have shoved him away and walked out of this room with whatever dignity I had left, but I didn’t because my body remembered him in ways my mind had tried desperately to forget.
The way his calloused hands felt dragging across my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
The way his mouth tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and something dark and uniquely him, something that made my pussy clench with need.
The way his body fit against mine like we were two pieces of the same broken, fucked-up thing.
“Fuck,” he growled against my lips, his hands sliding under my shirt, his rough palms scraping against my bare skin hard enough to make me gasp.
“Seven years, Lina. Seven motherfucking years and you still feel like heaven.” His voice was raw, broken, filled with a desperation that matched the ache between my thighs.
I gasped as his hands found my breasts, squeezing hard enough to make me arch into him, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin lace of my bra. “John.”
“Don’t,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through my chest. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want me to fuck you right here, right now. Unless you want me to bend you over this bed and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
My breath hitched, my thighs clenching together involuntarily.
I should have been offended. Should have slapped him and told him to go to hell, but instead, I felt heat pool low in my belly, felt my pussy getting wet, my body responding to the filthy threat in his voice like it was a promise I had been waiting seven years to hear.
“I hate you,” I whispered, even as my hands slid under his shirt, my fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle I remembered so well, feeling the way they flexed and tensed under my touch.
“I know,” he said, his mouth moving to my neck, his teeth scraping against my pulse point hard enough to leave a mark. “Hate me all you want, baby. But you’re still mine. This body is still mine. This pussy is still mine.”
He ripped my blouse apart in one rough motion before yanking off my blazer and what remained of my shirt, tossing them aside without looking.
His eyes raked over me, dark and hungry and feral, taking in every inch of exposed skin like he was starving and I was the only meal he’d ever need.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice thick. “Look at you. Look at these perfect fucking tits.”
I wanted to tell him to shut up. Wanted to tell him he didn’t get to say things like that after what he had done, but then his mouth was on my breast, his tongue circling my nipple through the lace of my bra, and I forgot how to form words.
My head fell back, a moan escaping my lips before I could stop it as his teeth scraped over the sensitive peak, and I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair.
“That’s it,” he growled against my skin. “Let me hear you. Let me hear all those pretty sounds you used to make when I fucked you raw.” His hands moved to my skirt, unzipping it from behind with practiced ease, shoving it down my hips along with my underwear in one rough, impatient motion.
I kicked them off, my body trembling with anticipation and rage, and desperate, aching need as he stepped back just long enough to remove his cut, throwing it on a chair before yanking his own shirt over his head, and I drank in the sight of him.
All hard muscle and ink. Scars I didn’t recognize were scattered across his chest and ribs.
Evidence of a life lived hard. A life lived without me.
The thought sent a fresh wave of anger through me, and I grabbed him by the belt, yanking him forward until our bodies collided.
A life where other women had touched him, tasted him, fucked him.
“You don’t get to look at me like that,” I said, my voice shaking with fury and need.
“You don’t get to act like you missed me when you spent seven years fucking club whores. When you let them touch what was mine.”
His jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous, and possessive.
“You think I wanted them?” he growled, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into my flesh. “You think any of them meant a goddamn fucking thing? You think their mouths felt like yours? Their cunts felt like yours?”
“I don’t care.”
“They were nothing,” he said, his voice fierce, almost desperate. “Ghosts. Distractions. Warm holes to fuck so I could forget for five fucking minutes that the woman I loved was gone. Ways to forget the woman I couldn’t have.”
His words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. “John.”
He kissed me again, brutal and possessive, his tongue claiming my mouth as his hands slid down to cup my ass, squeezing hard, lifting me effortlessly as I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, my body remembering this dance even if my mind screamed at me to stop.
I could feel his cock, hard and thick, pressing against my pussy through his jeans, and I ground against him shamelessly, desperate for friction.
He groaned into my mouth, his hips jerking forward. “Fuck, you’re already wet for me, aren’t you?” he growled against my lips. “I can feel it through my jeans. Seven years, and your body still knows who it belongs to.”
He carried me the few steps to the bed and dropped me onto the mattress, his body following me down, pinning me beneath him.
The weight of him was overwhelming. I could feel every inch of him pressed against me, the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, the heat of his skin burning through the denim, the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath.
“I need you,” he said, his voice rough and broken.
“I need to be inside you. Need to feel you wrapped around my cock. Need to know you’re real and not another fucking dream I’m going to wake up from. ”
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.
I should have said no. Should have pushed him away and told him he didn’t deserve this, but instead, I reached between us and unbuckled his belt, my hands shaking as I popped the button on his jeans and shoved them down his hips.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking pre-cum from the swollen head.
I wrapped my hand around him, and he groaned, his hips jerking forward into my grip. He was hot and heavy in my palm, the skin like velvet over steel, and I stroked him slowly, feeling him pulse in my hand.
“Fuck, Lina,” he breathed, his forehead dropping to mine, his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m not going to last. Not with your hand on my cock.”
“Then don’t,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, and his eyes snapped open, dark and intense, and I saw everything in them. The rage, the pain, the desperate, aching need that matched my own.
He knocked my hand away and positioned himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against my pussy, and I gasped at the sensation. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “I want you to look at me when I claim you. When I fuck this pussy that belongs to me.”
I met his gaze, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and then he thrust into me in one brutal stroke, filling me completely, stretching me in ways I’d forgotten, splitting me open as I cried out, my back arching off the bed, my nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck!” he groaned, his entire body trembling, his arms shaking as he held himself still inside me. “So tight. So fucking perfect. Like a goddamn vise around my cock. Like you were made for me.”
He didn’t give me time to adjust. Didn’t give me time to breathe as he pulled out almost completely, until just the head of his cock was still inside me, and then slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that stole the air from my lungs.
It was rough. Raw. Desperate. Every thrust was a claim, a punishment, a plea.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, my body remembering this rhythm like it had been waiting seven years for it. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, obscene and primal, mixing with our ragged breathing and my broken moans.
“You feel that?” he growled, his mouth against my ear, his breath hot on my skin. “You feel how perfectly you fit around my cock? You feel how deep I am inside you? This is where you belong, Lina. Right here. Underneath me. Taking my cock. Always.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, but I couldn’t. Because he was right. My body knew it. My heart knew it. Even my mind, screaming at me to stop, knew it. “Harder,” I gasped, my nails raking down his back, leaving red welts in their wake. “Fuck me harder. Make me feel it.”
He groaned, his hips snapping forward with bruising force, driving into me so deep I saw stars, so deep I could feel him in my stomach.
The bed frame slammed against the wall with every thrust, the sound echoing through the room along with our ragged breathing and the obscene wet sounds of our bodies coming together, of his cock pounding into my soaking pussy.
“Touch yourself,” he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. “I want to feel you come around my cock. Want to feel this pussy squeeze me when you fall apart.”
I slid my hand between us, my fingers finding my clit, circling it in tight, desperate strokes. The sensation was overwhelming as his thick cock filled me, stretched me, claimed me, hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur, while my own fingers pushed me closer and closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” he growled, his eyes locking on mine, watching me touch myself while he fucked me. “Look at you. So fucking beautiful when you’re desperate for my dick. Show me you’re mine, baby. Show me this pussy belongs to me.”
I hated him for it. Hated that he could still command my body like this.
Hated that after everything, after seven years of raising our daughter alone, after the pain and the betrayal and the rage, I still wanted him with a desperation that terrified me.
But I couldn’t stop. My body was chasing release like it was oxygen, like it would die without it. “John!”
“Say it,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control slipping, his cock swelling even thicker inside me. “Say you’re mine. Say this pussy is mine.”
“I—”
“SAY IT!” he roared, slamming into me so hard the headboard cracked against the wall.
“I’m yours!” I screamed as my orgasm slammed into me like a freight train, like a tidal wave, like the end of the fucking world.
My entire body convulsed, my inner walls clamping down around him, milking him, my pussy pulsing and fluttering as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but feel as John roared, his hips slamming forward one last time as he came, burying himself as deep as he could go, spilling inside me with a force that made his entire body shake.
I could feel it, the hot pulse of his release flooding me, filling me, marking me from the inside out. “Mine,” he groaned, his face buried in my neck, his teeth scraping against my skin. “All fucking mine. This body. This pussy. You.”
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us trembling, both of us gasping for air, our bodies still joined, his cock still twitching inside me. I could feel his cum leaking out around his softening length, could feel the mess we had made between my thighs.
Slowly, the haze of pleasure began to fade, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
What had I just done?
I let him fuck me. Let him claim me. Let him make me admit that I was his.
After everything. After seven years of raising our daughter alone.
After he accused me of betrayal. After he let that bitch slap me.
The tears came before I could stop them, hot and silent, sliding down my temples into my hair.
John lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw the exact moment he realized I was crying. “Lina?”
“Get off me,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
He pulled out slowly, carefully, and I felt the rush of his cum spilling out of me, felt the emptiness he left behind as he rolled to the side, his hand reaching for me.
I turned away, curling into myself, and wrapped my arms around my stomach, trying to hold myself together.
“Baby?”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t call me that.”
The bed shifted as he moved closer, his hand settling on my hip, warm and heavy. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “For everything. For accusing you. For not believing you. For letting Ruby touch you. For—”
“Stop,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Just stop.”
We lay there in silence, the weight of seven years pressing down on us like a physical thing.
I could feel his warmth behind me, could feel his breath on my shoulder, could feel the evidence of what we had just done leaking out of me, sticky and warm between my thighs, and despite everything, despite the anger and the pain and the betrayal, I didn’t move away because God help me, I was still his.
I had always been his, and I didn’t know how to be anything else.