Chapter 17
Seventeen
Aria
His question hangs in the air, a live wire sparking between us. “What now? You’ve patched up the monster. You’re not scared anymore?”
My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. Scared? Yes. The fear is a hot, electric thrill, a deafening noise that is finally loud enough to silence the void inside me. I want more of it.
I don’t answer with words. The time for words is over.
Slowly, deliberately, I lift my hand. It doesn’t tremble this time. I reach out and press my palm flat against his chest. His skin is hot, radiating a feverish energy. Beneath my hand I feel the solid, steady beat of his heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It’s a rhythm of life, strong and sure.
I let my fingers drift upward from the angry bruise on his ribs, tracing the path of the black ink that covers his skin.
My fingertips follow the sharp, elegant line of the raven’s wing etched over his heart.
The ink is a part of him, the lines like a secret language written on his skin.
I am not just touching him, I am reading him.
He sucks in a sharp, ragged breath as his entire body goes rigid.
“Aria,” Cassian growls my name like a warning. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”
His eyes betray the words, blazing with a desperate hunger. I don’t stop. I meet his gaze, letting him see the truth in mine. I’m not running. I’m not afraid of this.
That’s all it takes.
With a guttural roar he surges forward, grabbing my waist and pulling me onto his lap. “Fine,” he snarls against my mouth, his voice a raw promise of violence and pleasure. “You want to play with the monster? Fine.”
Cassian’s mouth crashes down on mine, a brutal, devouring kiss that tastes of whiskey, blood, and desperation.
He stands, lifting me effortlessly and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist, locking him to me.
He carries me a few steps and falls with me onto the mattress on the floor. The impact jars my teeth.
In a fluid, predatory motion he rolls, caging me beneath him, his weight a heavy, possessive blanket. He pins my wrists in one of his hands, holding them above my head with an easy, terrifying strength.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with emotion. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. You wanted this. You’re going to watch every second of it.”
I meet his gaze, my heart hammering, my body arching into his. “I’m not scared of you.”
A savage grin splits his bruised lips. “We’ll see.”
The world dissolves into a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs.
The sound of tearing fabric, the rasp of a zipper, the hiss of skin against skin.
It’s a blur of motion and sensation, driven by a need so sharp it borders on pain.
The cool air of the loft raises goosebumps on my skin, a stark contrast to the fire of his.
His gaze rakes over me, hot and possessive, and a flush creeps up my chest.
“Beautiful,” Cassian murmurs, the word a hard difference to the ferocity in his eyes. He shifts, and then his hand is on my throat, his fingers splaying over the sensitive skin. Not pressing, just resting there as a claim, a promise.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse at the base of my neck. “To feel my hands on you?”
I can’t speak so I just nod, my gaze locked on his. His touch is electric, a current that arcs through my entire body. It’s a threat, but it’s also a lifeline.
He leans in, his face inches from mine, his breath warm on my lips. “Good,” he whispers, then he presses down. A slow, deliberate squeeze that restricts my air. Not enough to harm, just enough to make me feel the fragility of my own life in his hands.
My breath catches with a small, strangled sound. My world narrows to the feel of his fingers on my neck, the heat of his body on mine, the look in his eyes. Panic wars with a fierce, primal thrill. I am completely at his mercy, and I have never felt more alive.
He holds me there, suspended on the knife’s edge of fear and desire for a long, drawn-out moment. Then he leans in closer, so close our lips are almost touching.
“Open your mouth,” he commands.
I obey without hesitation.
He spits, a hot, intimate gesture that lands on my tongue. The shock of it is visceral, a jolt of pure, unadulterated possession. “Swallow,” he orders.
My throat works around the pressure of his fingers as I obey. My pussy clenches as a wave of slick heat floods me. I am completely and utterly owned.
A dark satisfaction twists his lips. “That’s my good girl.”
Cassian releases my throat and I gasp, dragging in a ragged breath.
The reprieve is short-lived. He shifts again, moving up my body and then his knees are on either side of my head, bracketing me in.
His heavy cock juts out, a thick, angry-looking rod of flesh, the head already beaded with precum. He fists it, stroking slowly.
“Open,” he says again, his voice a low growl.
My lips part, and he doesn’t hesitate, feeding the thick head past my teeth and onto my tongue.
He’s huge, the sheer size stretching my jaw.
The taste of him is musky, primal. He’s in control of the pace, of the depth, of everything.
He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, letting me get used to him, but it doesn’t last. He sinks deeper, his grip tightening in my hair, holding me still as he fucks my face.
“Look at me while I use your pretty little mouth,” he snarls. “Yeah, that’s it. Take it. Take all of me.”
My eyes water, but I don’t look away. I watch the raw, unguarded pleasure on his face as he claims me this way, using my body for his own dark gratification. My own arousal is a pounding ache between my legs, a desperate need for friction, for release.
He pulls back suddenly, leaving me gasping. Before I can protest Cassian’s moving again, settling between my thighs. His gaze is intense, predatory as he looks down at my bared cunt.
“Look at this sloppy fucking cunt,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a raw reverence. “So wet for me. So ready.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. He grips my hips, lifts me, and slams into me in one brutal, unforgiving thrust. The invasion is searing, a sharp, exquisite pain that borders on too much. I cry out, sounding ragged and broken.
“Fucking tight,” he grits out, stilling for a moment, letting me adjust to the sheer size of him. “Gonna ruin this perfect pussy for anyone else.”
Then he starts to move. It’s not gentle. It’s a punishing rhythm, a wild, desperate claiming that leaves me breathless. His hips snap against mine, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet loft. His breath comes in ragged gasps against my neck, and his words are a filthy, beautiful torrent.
“You take me so good,” he growls, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. This pussy was made for my cock.”
“Mmm…” I whimper.
The pressure is building inside me, a coil of tension winding tighter and tighter with each brutal stroke.
I’m so close, teetering on the edge, but he’s not letting me fall.
He seems to know my body too well, knows just how to push me to the brink and hold me there. It’s a delicious, agonizing torture.
I need more. I need to feel him, to mark him. My hands fly to his back, my fingers finding purchase. I drag my nails down the hard planes of muscle, not gently but with a savage, desperate force. I want to leave a trail of fire, a map of this moment on his skin.
Cassian roars with a sound of pure, unadulterated pain and pleasure. The sting of my nails seems to unlock something feral in him. He rears back, his face a mask of raw, untamed emotion.
“You little wildcat,” he snarls, his eyes blazing. “You want to play rough? Let’s play rough.”
His hand flies to my throat again, but this time there is no gentle squeeze.
Cassian’s fingers wrap around my neck in a tight, constricting band that makes my head spin.
The world narrows to the feel of him inside me, the pressure on my windpipe, and the look in his eyes. He’s not playing anymore. This is real.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growls, his voice a raw, ragged sound. “To feel me claim every inch of you? To be at my mercy?”
I can’t answer. I can only moan, a weak, breathy sound. The lack of air combined with the relentless pounding of his cock is a dizzying, intoxicating cocktail of sensation. My body is no longer my own. It is a vessel for his pleasure, a canvas for his rage.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, more forceful. “This cunt is mine. This throat is mine. You are mine.”
He releases my throat and I drag in a ragged, desperate breath, my vision swimming.
But before I can fully recover he’s moving again, pulling out of me with a slick, wet sound.
He flips me over with a brutal, dismissive strength, hauling my hips up until I’m on my knees.
My face is buried in the rough wool of the mattress.
“Stick your ass out,” he commands, his voice tight with control. “Arch your back. Yeah, just like that.”
I comply, my body trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He enters me from behind with a single, powerful thrust that sends a jolt of pure pleasure through me. He’s even deeper this way, the angle hitting a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow. “You feel so fucking good. So fucking tight. This cunt is perfect.”
He sets a punishing pace, the slap of his skin against mine a sharp, rhythmic percussion in the small room. One of his hands leaves my hip and then I feel a sharp, stinging slap on my ass cheek. The impact sends a fresh wave of slick heat through me.
“Like that?” he asks, his voice a low, mocking taunt. “Like being spanked like a naughty little girl?”
I can only moan in response, my fingers clutching at the blanket beneath me. He does it again, harder this time, the sound echoing in the silence.
“Answer me,” he demands, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back. “Do you like it when I spank you?”
“Yes!” I gasp, the word torn from my throat. “Yes, I like it.”
A dark, triumphant laugh rumbles in his chest. “Of course you do. You love being put in your place. You love being my little slut.”
His words are a humiliating, thrilling balm and I can feel myself spiraling, the pressure inside me building to an unbearable peak. He’s driving me toward a cliff, and he’s not letting up. He’s going to make me jump.
“Come for me,” he commands, his thrusts growing more erratic, more forceful. “Come all over my cock. Now.”
The command breaks something inside me. The dam bursts, and a tidal wave of pleasure crashes over me, so intense it borders on pain.
It’s a brutal, forced orgasm, ripped from my body without my consent.
My back arches, a silent scream tearing from my throat as my body convulses around him, the spasms so strong they steal my breath.
I feel my gushing hot fluid soaking him, me, the mattress.
“Fuck, yeah,” he growls, his voice a raw, ragged sound of satisfaction. “That’s it. Soak my fucking cock. Good girl.”
He doesn’t stop. He continues to pound into me, drawing out the pleasure until it’s almost too much, a blinding, overwhelming force. My body is a limp, quivering mass, but he’s not done with me yet. He pulls out and I feel a moment of loss, of emptiness.
He flips me over again, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. I’m a ragdoll in his hands, a plaything for his pleasure. He kneels between my spread legs, his gaze raking over my flushed, sweat-slicked body.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he says, a twisted, adoring look in his eyes. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the slick, swollen folds of my cunt, gathering the wetness there. He brings his glistening fingers to my lips. “Taste yourself. Taste how much you love this.”
I open my mouth and he slides his fingers inside, coating my tongue with my own essence. The taste is musky, intimate, a stark reminder of my own wanton surrender.
“You like that?” he asks, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “You like tasting your own slutty juice?”
I can only nod, my eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.
He shifts, moving up my body until he’s straddling my chest. His cock is hard and heavy, a thick, imposing length of flesh, glistening with my arousal. He wraps a hand around it, stroking it slowly.
“Open wide,” he commands. “I’m gonna fuck that pretty little throat again.”
I obey, my mouth falling open. He guides the head to my lips, but he doesn't enter me. He leans down, his face inches from mine. "You've been such a good girl, Aria. Taking my cock like you were made for it. You're going to get a reward."
He straightens up, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He starts stroking himself faster, his fist a blur of motion, the sounds of his pleasure filling the room. My gaze is locked on his face, on the raw, unguarded need I see there.
“Gonna paint this pretty face with my cum,” he growls, his hips thrusting into his own hand. “Gonna mark you as mine. Make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”
His breath hitches, his body tensing. With a guttural roar, he finds his release. Hot, thick spurts of cum land on my face, on my breasts, on my stomach. It’s a primal, claiming act and I feel a fierce, triumphant thrill course through me. I am marked. I am his.
He milks the last drops from his cock then leans down, smearing the cum across my skin with his fingers. He scoops up a glob from my cheek and brings it to my lips.
“Clean it up,” he orders.
I eagerly lick his fingers clean, the taste of him salty and potent. He’s watching me, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
“You’re a mess,” he says, a note of fondness in his voice. He leans in, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead he licks a stray drop of cum from my chin in a slow, possessive gesture that sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
He rolls off me, pulling me into his arms. We lie there in a tangle of limbs, our harsh breathing the only sound in the quiet loft. I can feel the sticky mess on my skin, the ache in my muscles, the delicious soreness between my legs. I’ve never felt more used, more claimed, or more alive.
He’s quiet for a long moment, just holding me. I can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my back. It’s a comforting, grounding sound in the aftermath of our frantic coupling.
“Aria,” he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “I’m not a good man.”
I shift in his arms, turning to face him. His face is in shadow, but I can see the intensity in his eyes. “I know.”
“I’ve done terrible things,” he continues, his fingers tracing a pattern on my arm. “Things that would make you run screaming if you knew.”
“I’m not running,” I say, my voice firm. “I’m here.”
He lets out a slow, shaky breath. “Why?”