Third Crossing #2
His hands are already on my hips, and his mouth never leaves mine, just shifts lower, heat moving down my jaw, his teeth scraping the tendon of my neck. He bites, and I gasp, the sound flipping a switch somewhere behind his eyes.
He slams me flat, one hand bracing my chest, flattening me into the cold mahogany of the desk. I hear pages crumple. His cock is already out, already thick and furious against my inner thigh. His fingers are in my hair before the realization takes shape.
He gets me on my knees, one hand curled like a leash around my hair, the other splitting my lips open, thumb smearing the wetness at my mouth to make a point.
“You have five seconds to open.”
He doesn’t need to count. My jaw is already slack, tongue out, begging to be filled, ruined, used. He shoves in, thick and salt-bitter, hitting the back of my throat so hard, I gag before I can even close around him.
He’s so fucking deep, so relentless, there’s no space for air, let alone pride.
My head is a white-out, every cell focused on him, on the violation, the absolute control. He’s so hard, it hurts to take him, but I don’t want him to stop, ever. I want to feel it for days. Want the ache to outlast the memory.
My hands are useless, arms twisted behind my back and pinned against the edge of the desk, so I take it with my whole body, scream as I try to open wider, throat caught between his cock and my own rising panic.
He slides back and then rams home, using my hair like reins, his other hand braced on the back of my skull for leverage.
Saliva slicks his length, runs down my chin, pools in the hollow of my throat.
I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only claw at the edge of consciousness as each thrust obliterates everything but the drive to take it all.
He lets up with a grunt, just long enough for me to suck in a breath and cough up the spit drowning my voice. My lungs seize, the air cold and sharp in my chest, then he’s back in, forcing a rhythm so brutal, it flattens the world to nothing but his violence and my surrender.
My knees are going, nerves fizzing out in my thighs, more pain than I can process, but I want it, want him to slam my head into my own death if it means never losing this.
He yanks free, and I collapse forward, forehead striking the desk, bliss and misery bleeding together.
My mouth is still slack, jaw throbbing, tongue unsure what to do with itself.
I want to sob, or snarl, or lunge at him.
Bite him, rip him open, and crawl inside.
But Alessandro’s not done.
He drags me up by the hair, pivots me around, and bends me over the desk, my hips propped on the sharp edge, thighs spread wide.
The ruined lace of my underwear tangles around one knee.
There’s paper everywhere, ink smearing under my cheek.
Evidence, confession, the fucking history of my annihilation.
He thrusts inside in one go, filling me so hard I yelp. But the pain is a trumpet call, not a warning. My pussy clenches in shock, then greed, milking him so hard my thighs shake and my hands curl into claws, dragging gouges through the wood.
He fucks me like he’s erasing history, like he’s hammering out a new narrative with the desk and my body as the only witnesses worth corrupting.
The slap of his hips is a metronome too fast to follow, logic in it and none at all.
I want to tell him to slow down, to stop, but the words come out as gasps, vowels, a string of moans that ramps higher every time he splits me open.
He leans over, his chest crushing my back flat, mouth at my ear. “You’re mine now,” he says. “Say it.”
I spit, the only answer I have left, and he laughs, deep, fucking delighted.
His hand fists in my hair again, wrenches my head up so I’m forced to look at the disaster of files in front of me.
He fucks me harder, twisting my hips up and forward so the burn is everywhere, so there is nothing left of Evie but muscle clenched around the fuck and the fight.
He hisses in my ear, the sound pure hunger.
“You like the evidence. Makes you feel dangerous. You want to know what’s in the files?
I’ll tell you.” His thrusts don’t falter, not once.
“Everything in there is a lie. Just like every word I’ve told you since the beginning.
” His hand snakes over my scalp, palm pressing my brow to the paper.
“But you know that. You were never here for truth. You were here for power.”
I almost scream at that. My fists hit the desk, and the pain is crystalline, stunning enough to break through the fury.
“Fuck you,” I spit, but my voice is wrecked, barely more than a moan.
His cock slips, just a little, then slams in deeper, the stretch so sick and wrong it’s perfect. I want this pain, want the proof of it stamped onto my bones. And he’s giving it to me, relentless, pounding my story into the wood and the air and anywhere else that will keep its shape.
I don’t know where my body ends and Alessandro’s violence begins. The whole room tunnels down to sweat, breath, the slap of our skin, the thick, wet sound of me stretching to hold him and never getting used to it.
He tangles his hand in my hair, pulls until my neck arches and my back snaps up off the desk. The angle changes into a new burn, new pleasure.
“Last chance,” he grinds out, voice shredded, all facade gone. “Say it. Or I’ll make you scream it.”
I snarl, a sound I didn’t know I could make. “Never.”