3. Three Choices, One Ruin
Three Choices, One Ruin
His eyes flare. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… released. The last thread of control snapping clean.
"And here I've been trying to be a gentleman," he says.
The words hit me like a punch—low, sharp, hot.
"What now?" I whisper.
"Now, I'm wondering why I'm even pretending."
He closes the distance, and the air between us ignites. His fingers brush along my jaw, calloused and warm, tipping my face up like I already belong to him. His other hand slides to my waist, gripping firmly, dragging me against the full heat of his body.
He's hard. Solid. There.
The contact shoots through me like lightning.
His lips hover a breath above mine, his voice nothing but gravel and fire.
"This doesn't have to mean anything beyond tonight…"
A pause.
"But I promise you, if you let me take charge—it'll be everything you've imagined."
Then his hand fists in my hair, and his mouth crashes into mine—devouring, dominant, utterly unapologetic.
I don't answer. I can't.
Because he's already taken control—of my mouth, my breath, my body, my sanity.
It's instant combustion.
The kiss is brutal in its honesty—no hesitation, no sweet pretense. Just heat and hunger and all the filthy, forbidden things I've been aching for since the moment I laid eyes on him.
His hands slide to my waist, and in one swift movement, my back hits the wall with a thud that echoes through me. His body presses in, hips grinding, thigh wedged between mine, dragging a moan from somewhere deep.
I grind against him instinctively, shameless, chasing friction. His growl rumbles against my lips—low, primal, devastating.
He grips my thighs, lifts me effortlessly. I wrap around him without thinking, my skirt riding high, breath ragged. His mouth claims mine again—hot, wet, punishing—his tongue sliding against mine making my core clench.
Then his lips are at my jaw, trailing down my neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot that sends a pulse straight to my spine. "You smell like sin," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "And I've had enough of pretending I don't want you."
My fingers find the hem of his sweater, yanking it up, desperate to get to skin. I drag my nails along the ridges of muscle beneath and feel him shudder. He curses—raw and filthy—as he sets me down just long enough to strip the sweater off and toss it aside.
And then he's on me again.
His mouth. His hands. The fire he's lighting under my skin.
He grabs my thighs again, and this time when he lifts me, there's no pause. No hesitation. Just claiming. One hand drags my dress up, baring me completely. His palm slides up the inside of my thigh, and I gasp—already soaked, already ready.
His other hand moves between us. I hear the low rasp of his zipper. His mouth is still on mine, devouring every breath.
Then his voice—low, dangerous—right against my lips.
"Tell me to stop."
My eyes snap open. He's close enough to see every flicker of restraint in his expression, like he's balancing on the edge of something feral.
"I'm not going to do that," I whisper, barely able to speak around the thudding of my pulse.
His eyes darken. His mouth curves—not soft, not sweet.
Predatory.
"Good."
He growls and lifts me again, this time without hesitation. One hand slides beneath my dress, fingers gliding through slick heat that confirms every unspoken thing between us.
"Fuck," he mutters. "You're soaked for me already."
I can't speak. Can't breathe.
My back hits the wall. My legs lock around his waist. And in one brutal thrust, he's inside me—deep, stretching me open, making me his.
My gasp is swallowed by his mouth. His tongue takes over, claiming everything, leaving no part of me untouched.
Then he starts to move.
Hard. Fast. Relentless.
A man on a mission.
Rutting. Fucking.
He pounds into me, each thrust slamming me against the wall, making me feel every inch, every ruthless intention in his body.
"You like this?" he growls against my neck, his voice pure gravel. "Like me fucking you senseless?"
I moan—helpless, wrecked.
"Yeah, you do. You love it. Love being pinned up like this. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but take it."
Each word is punctuated by a thrust—hard, filthy, devastating.
"Wrapped around me… trembling like this… fuck, you were made for this. For me."
I cry out as his hand fists in my hair, tugging just enough to arch my neck and expose more of my throat. His teeth scrape across my skin. I'm already burning for him.
"Look at you," he growls, fucking me harder. "So fucking tight. So desperate. You love this—love being held like you're helpless while I fuck you against the goddamn wall."
My hands claw at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle. My moans break into gasps with every thrust.
He's relentless. Savage. Perfect.
My orgasm builds fast, blinding. Pressure twisting, heat tightening, nerves snapping.
"I can feel you," he growls. "About to come. I should make you beg for it, but I'm feeling generous."
I shatter at his filthy words.
My scream rips into his mouth as I convulse around him, body clenching so hard it nearly breaks me. Pleasure rips through me—raw, full-body, white-hot.
"Fuck," he snarls, hips jerking. "Take it. Take all of it."
He slams in deep, one last time, and goes still—groaning my name against my skin as he spills inside me, his entire body shuddering.
Silence crashes in.
Breathless. Shaky. Just the fire and the brutal thud of our hearts.
He doesn't move. Just leans his forehead to mine, both of us drenched in heat and sweat and something that feels too much.
Eventually, he sets me down, slow and careful. His hands linger like he's not quite ready to let me go.
I tug my dress down over my trembling thighs, still pulsing from the aftershocks.
"I'll get some water," he says, like he didn't just completely unmake me.
He walks away like he didn't just fuck me into the wall.
Casual. Loose. Zipper undone. His cock—still half-hard, slick and heavy—swings between his thighs as he moves.
I can't stop staring.
He strides into the kitchen, muscles flexing beneath that bare torso like a fucking predator—wolfish, unapologetic. He opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, cracks it, and takes a slow pull. His throat works, muscles rippling with every swallow.
Then he looks at me.
That look burns. Pure heat. Pure hunger.
"You okay?" he asks, voice deceptively mild. "Not what you expected when you came up here, I'm guessing."
I don't answer. Can't. My legs are trembling, my panties ruined, and he's standing there like he's got all the time in the world to do it again.
He sets the bottle down and starts walking back—slow, deliberate. His cock bounces slightly with every step, thick and tempting and not done.
He stops in front of me. Lifts a brow.
"I've been thinking about fucking you since I caught you on the stairs," he says, voice rough. "That tight little skirt. That mouth. The way you tried to pretend I didn't get under your skin."
He turns and gestures toward the bed.
Four-poster. Rings gleaming in the firelight.
Then he points up.
Ceiling beam. Hooks.
I swallow.
"You have three choices," he says, voice like sin. "You pick… or I'll pick for you."
He steps closer. His cock brushes against my dress. Deliberate.
"One—" he lifts a finger, "I tie you to that bed and make you scream so loud you lose your voice. Wrists bound. Legs spread. Nothing but my mouth and cock and your begging."
He leans in, lips just shy of mine.
"Two—" another finger lifts, "you drop to your knees and suck me like you've been fantasizing about since the lodge. You have been fantasizing about it… haven't you, Amelia?"
I suck in a breath, but he doesn't let me answer.
"Three," he says, smile curling wicked and slow, "you tell me I'm in charge and I decide which one comes first."
He steps back half a pace. Just enough to give me space. But his eyes never leave mine.
"You've got three seconds." His voice drops to a growl. "Choose."
My mouth is dry. My legs, still trembling. Every part of me throbs—from the stretch of him, the impact of his words, the promise of what he wants next.
Three choices.
All of them filthy. All of them perfect.
I meet his gaze—steady, smoldering—and find the strength I didn't know I still had.
"I choose all three."
His brows lift. His smile? Predatory.
But I'm already moving.
I drop to my knees on the soft rug in front of him, lifting my chin as I stare up at him, lips parted, voice low and shaking but sure.
"This one first."
His cock twitches. His hand fists at his side.
"Fuuuuck," he growls, voice thick. "You have no idea what that just did to me."
I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock, already hardening again in my hand, thick and heavy, hot against my palm.
He watches me—completely still, like a beast stalking prey—until I lick a slow, deliberate stripe along the underside of him.
He hisses through his teeth. "Shit. Just like that."
My tongue circles the tip, gathering the taste of him. My lips part, and I take him into my mouth, slow at first, savoring the weight of him, the way he fills me.
"God, you look good like that," he mutters, voice wrecked. "On your knees. Lips stretched around my cock."
I hum around him, and his hand snaps into my hair, not pulling—guiding. Just enough pressure to remind me who's really in control.
"You wanted this," he grits out. "You wanted to feel me on your tongue. Wanted to taste me, suck me, serve me."
I moan in response, cheeks hollowing as I slide deeper, saliva pooling, eyes watering as I take as much as I can.
"Fuck, Amelia—messy little mouth," he growls, thrusting shallowly into my throat. "You like it filthy, don't you? Like gagging on my cock while I praise you for being my good girl."
Heat rushes between my thighs. I grind against nothing, desperate and aching.
He drags me back, lets me breathe, just long enough to catch his eye. His pupils are blown, jaw tight, chest heaving.
Then he's back inside—thrusting deeper, harder.