5. Ruined by the Truth #2
And god help me—I moan.
Inside, everything keens.
Because he's not wrong, and we both know it.
I inhale sharply. My spine straightens. "That's not?—"
"No?" He leans in, mouth brushing my cheek as he speaks. "Because that's what you said this morning. That it meant nothing. And you meant it, didn't you?"
I don't answer. I can't.
His fingers graze my jaw, slow. Purposeful.
"Maybe that's the only way you can take it. Hard. Aggressive. Detached." His lips ghost across my ear. "You want it impersonal? You want it to feel like you're just a body?"
I should move. I should stop this.
But my knees are already going weak.
"You like it when it's rough because then you don't have to feel. You don't have to want. You just take."
My silence is answer enough.
Something shifts.
His hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just holding. Claiming.
"You want impersonal?" His voice is low, brutal.
I swallow hard. Nod once.
His hand tightens—just slightly—reminding me who's in control.
"Then I'm going to give it to you." He growls, voice molten steel. "Exactly how you say you want it. No sweet nothings. No gentle touches. Just you taking what I give."
He launches himself at me, closing the distance in a breath, hand gripping my throat—not tight, just firm, enough to make my pulse stutter under his grip.
His mouth crashes down on mine—hot, dominant, claiming.
One hand still on my throat, the other yanking the sweater up and over my head in a single rough motion.
The cold air hits my skin like a slap, but then he's everywhere—mouth on my neck, teeth scraping my collarbone, hands sliding down to cup my ass.
The air charges—static, electric—as he spins me without warning, pressing me hard against the elevator wall. My palms slap the cold metal, my breath catching in my throat as his body cages mine from behind.
I feel his cock, hard and ready, grinding against me through denim.
"You don't want it to mean anything?" His voice is a snarl in my ear. "Let's play pretend."
He shoves my leggings down, fast and rough. I gasp as cold air hits my thighs, followed by the sharp heat of his palm sliding between my legs.
"This is what control feels like." He hooks his fingers in the band of my panties and rips—rips—them down, the sound shockingly loud in the confined space. "You'll take it because I say so. Because I want it and because you need it. Because every part of you is begging to be ruined."
My forehead hits the wall. My mouth parts in a moan I can't contain.
"You're fucking wet." He mutters. "You want this, even now.
Especially now. You've been asking for this since the moment you challenged me.
" He pushes my legs wider with his knee.
"And now, I'm going to give it to you—rough, filthy, and exactly the way you like it.
I'm going to fuck you." He growls against my lips. "And it's going to hurt."
I gasp, but he doesn't stop.
"It's going to hurt." He continues. "Because that's what I want. And you?" His palm flattens on my chest, holding me in place. "You're just a body I'm going to take from."
His words slap harder than his hands ever could.
But I don't stop him.
I don't stop him because he's right. Not that I could.
He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask again.
He enters in one brutal thrust, no warning, no softness. Just the stretch and burn of being filled fast and deep.
I cry out, body jerking, hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.
Each movement is punishing. Unapologetic. He fucks me like I'm not a person, but a need. Something he has to consume. Own. Like this is about him now—his hunger, his dominance, his right to take.
"Yeah." He growls behind me. "That's what you wanted, right? Hard. Fast. Nothing personal. Just a cock and a hole."
My nails scrape the elevator wall. My teeth sink into my lip. I nod, gasping, sobbing—because yes, this is what I asked for. What I need.
"You're just a body now." He growls. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?" His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back. "Say it."
Every thrust drives me into the wall. The elevator rocks slightly with the force of it, the slap of skin echoing off the metal.
"You like being taken like this?" His voice is a low snarl. "Anonymous. Mindless. Used."
I moan, body shuddering.
"You like being fucked in the dark?"
Each thrust slams into me, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tight, dark space. I can't see his face. I can't see anything. And somehow, that makes it worse.
Or maybe… better.
Because in the dark, I don't have to lie. I don't have to pretend I'm not falling apart inside.
"Say it. Tell me this is what you want. To be used. To be fucked."
"Yes." I gasp as tension coils deep within me. "Take me."
"Fucking right I will."
His thrusts get harder. Faster. The elevator shakes with the force of it, his hips slamming into mine over and over as he strips me down to nothing but sensation and obedience.
And still, he doesn't stop.
This isn't about pleasure—it's about power, and for the first time in my life, I feel it the way I need to from a man.
Real. Raw. Right.
When I come, it's violent. My orgasm slams into me like a freight train, stolen from my body with precision I can't defend against. A sob rips from my throat, my whole body seizing, held up only by the wall and the man I said didn't matter.
I cry out his name—his fucking name.
"You said it didn't mean anything." He snarls. "Yet, you're sobbing my name."
And that's when he lets go, spilling into me with a groan that's anything but impersonal. Lucas comes with a raw, broken sound; one hand braced against the wall, the other still clamped tight to my hip.
He doesn't pull out right away. Just stays there, forehead pressed to the back of my neck, breath ragged.
The silence is deafening.
Just our breathing. Rough. Ragged. Syncing too fast.
I don't know what to say.
Because nothing about that was impersonal.
And we both fucking know it.