17. Drowning Again #6
He bent low, mouth at my ear, voice rough.
“Ready for it, pretty boy? I’m going to ruin you.
I want you to feel me for days.” I nodded, unable to form words, still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth and fingers.
My ass was wet, open, spit-slicked and twitching, hungry for anything he would give .
Victor knelt behind me, gripping my hips with both hands, holding me in place as he reached for the lube on the nightstand.
He clicked open the cap, squeezed a generous amount into his palm, and worked it over his cock, slow and deliberate, making sure I could hear every filthy, wet sound.
He pressed slick fingers back between my cheeks, spreading the lube over my rim, pushing some inside until I was gasping, aching for him to fill me.
Only then did he line himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my hole, insistent, stretching me all over again. He didn’t push in yet—just rocked, teasing, smearing precome and lube over my rim until I was whining, rutting back against him, desperate for the stretch and the burn.
“You want it rough, don’t you?” he said, a threat and a promise all at once. “Say it.”
“Please, Victor—fuck me. Want it hard. Need you to take me—please, please—” I barely recognized my own voice, ragged with need.
“That’s it. Good boy.” He spat again, right onto my hole, the sound filthy in the silence, and pressed forward, slow for the first inch, letting my body adjust, then slamming the rest of the way in with a single brutal thrust.
I choked on a moan, hands clutching the sheets, every nerve ending lit up and burning.
He was so deep, stretching me wide, filling me with a pain-pleasure that made my eyes roll back.
Victor paused, letting me feel every inch, then pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that rocked my whole body.
His fingers dug bruises into my hips, holding me steady as he fucked me open.
The sound of our bodies—flesh slapping, breath harsh, bedsprings squealing—filled the room, drowning out thought.
He drove into me again and again, each thrust harder than the last, cock splitting me open, owning me from the inside out.
“That’s it, Rowan. Take it.” His words were a dirty litany, pushing me deeper under, making me ache for him, for the bruises, for the way he made me feel small and perfect and wanted.
“Yes—god, yes, Victor, harder, please—” I was babbling, gasping with every slap of his hips, cock already starting to thicken again beneath me.
He leaned forward, pressing his chest to my back, one hand winding in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. He bit down, sucking another mark above my collarbone, then licked a stripe up the side of my neck, breath hot and ragged in my ear.
“So desperate, so fucking beautiful like this. You take every inch like you were made for it.” He punctuated the words with a brutal thrust that made me see stars, cock grinding into my sweet spot, making me whimper and clench down around him.
Victor’s other hand slid between my thighs, fingers wrapping around my cock, stroking rough and fast in time with his thrusts. I was so sensitive, the pleasure sharp and dangerous, threatening to push me over again.
“Gonna come for me again?” he growled. “Gonna make a mess all over yourself while I fuck you open?”
“Yes—please, I can’t—Victor—please?—”
He slammed into me, relentless, fucking me so hard I could barely breathe. My whole body burned, ass stinging from the slap of his hips, cock drooling against his fist. He pulled almost all the way out, spit down onto his cock, then rammed back in, the extra slickness making it even filthier.
He leaned close, spit into my open mouth, then kissed me rough, biting my lower lip, tongue fucking in time with his cock. “Swallow. Every drop. ”
I did, swallowing him down, desperate for anything he’d give. He grinned, triumphant, then fucked into me harder, pushing me up the bed with the force of it.
The pressure built, bright and blinding, pleasure curling hot and mean in my gut.
Victor never slowed, never let up, just kept using me, praising me, telling me how good I was, how tight I felt, how I was his and only his.
Every filthy word made me tighten, made me ache for him, made me want to give him everything.
“Come for me, Rowan. Want you to paint the sheets while I fuck you. Let me see you break.”
That was all it took. I came with a sob, cock pulsing in his fist, shooting hot over his hand and the bed, body clenching down around his cock. Victor groaned, fingers bruising my hips, thrusting faster, chasing his own release.
“Fuck—so good, so fucking good, gonna fill you up?—”
With a final, brutal slam, he buried himself deep, cock twitching, spilling inside me, hips grinding as he fucked every drop into my body. I felt him pulse, hot and thick, the sensation overwhelming, filthy, perfect.
He stayed there, panting, body heavy over mine, cock still buried deep, leaking come and sweat and spit. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the sound of our breathing, the sting of bruises, the sticky mess cooling on my thighs.
Victor pulled out slow, a groan escaping as his cock slipped free, and watched his come drip from my hole, mixing with spit, marking me as his. He dragged a finger through the mess, then fed it to me, making me suck and swallow, praise pouring from his lips as I obeyed.
The bedroom smelled like sex and sweat, thick enough to cling to the back of my throat.
Sheets twisted around my legs as I sat there, dazed, my chest still heaving like I’d run a mile.
Victor stood at the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt with the same care he’d probably use when signing a contract—precise, unhurried, each motion sharp enough to cut through the haze.
He didn’t look at me right away. Not until his cufflinks were fastened, his tie tugged back into place, the last marks of disarray smoothed over. Only then did he glance down, eyes cool, like he was assessing the state of the room rather than the state of me.
“Where’s my jacket?” His tone was casual, practiced neutrality, as if the last hour hadn’t happened. As if I hadn’t been bent beneath him, begging like my life depended on it.
I pulled the sheet up over my hips, half-shield, half-shame, and pointed to where it had landed on the chair.
He retrieved it, slipped it on, and smoothed the lapels with that same meticulous calm.
He looked like a man about to step onto a podium, not one who had just undone me in every possible way.
My clothes were scattered across the floor, half-hidden under his polished shoes. I bent to collect them, hands shaking more than I wanted them to. My jeans resisted when I tried to pull them on, denim catching on damp skin, a stark reminder of what had just been done to me.
Victor watched without comment. He let the silence stretch until it scraped against my nerves, until I felt smaller than I had when I’d first walked into the bar. Then, finally, he reached for his glass from the nightstand and drained the last sip with a satisfied hum.
“You’ll want to wash those sheets,” he said idly, setting the glass down again. The words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t kind either. They were something in between—dismissal masquerading as advice.
I tugged my shirt over my head, fabric sticking to the sweat cooling on my skin. He stepped past me to adjust the curtain, letting a sliver of light cut into the room. The gesture should have been nothing, but it felt deliberate, like he wanted the morning to touch me while he remained in shadow.
When he finally spoke again, it wasn’t about me at all. “This place has potential,” he said, eyes scanning the corners of the room as if he were surveying real estate. “Tucked away, close to the center of town. Convenient.”
Convenient for what, he didn’t say.
I swallowed hard, throat dry, and busied myself with finding my socks. They’d ended up half under the bed, damp with sweat and dust, like the rest of me—dirty, discarded. By the time I straightened, Victor was at the door, hand resting lightly on the frame, body language already halfway gone.
He looked back at me finally, that politician’s smile ghosting across his mouth. Polite, charming, meaningless. “I’ll see you around, Rowan.”
Not a promise. Not a threat. Just words, empty enough to make me want to fill them with meaning that wasn’t there.
The door closed behind him with the soft click of inevitability, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my own choices, fully dressed but feeling stripped bare all over again.