Chapter 8 #2
I moaned, couldn’t help it. He pumped in and out, slow at first, then faster.
The heel of his palm ground into my clit at the bottom of every thrust. I was writhing now, body trying to squirm away, but he just shifted his weight and kept going, adding another finger, then a third.
It hurt, but not in a way I wanted to stop.
I clenched around him, and he laughed again, a sound that made me want to both spit in his face and beg for more.
“Good girl,” he said, voice so low it vibrated inside my chest. “You’re gonna come for me, right here.”
I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
But my body had other plans. I could feel it building, a pressure cooker of want and humiliation, and I tried to fight it but the more I resisted, the stronger it got.
He must have sensed the shift, because he let go of my wrists and reached up to grab my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye as he fucked me with his fingers.
“You’re mine now,” he said. “Say it.”
I shook my head, just barely. “No,” I whispered.
He squeezed my jaw hard enough to hurt. “Say it.”
“Fuck you,” I managed.
He grinned and then pushed me harder. His thumb worked my clit now, fast and mean, while his fingers filled me up.
I bucked under him, couldn’t help it. The pressure inside me snapped, and I came—loud, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream.
It was a full-body orgasm, the kind that leaves you trembling and weak, that makes your toes curl and your lungs seize up.
He didn’t stop. He kept working me through the aftershocks until I was oversensitive and kicking at him to make it stop. Only then did he pull his hand free and wipe it on the bedsheet.
I lay there, dazed and half-blind, trying to catch my breath. He rolled me onto my stomach, slow and deliberate, and used his gigantic hands to massage the muscles up and down my spine. He found the knots and pressed them out, kneaded the flesh until it hurt, then soothed it with long strokes.
I would have fallen asleep right there, but then I felt his hand drift lower, down to the curve of my ass. He squeezed, then spread the cheeks apart, exposing my hole. I tensed, a ripple of panic surging through me.
He noticed of course. “You’re so fucking tight,” he said, almost reverent.
He ran a finger over the pucker, just barely touching, then pressed down until I thought I’d break in half.
I clenched, tried to shut him out, but he just chuckled and spanked me—once, twice, three times, each hit ringing out like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“That’s not how this works,” he said, voice in my ear. “You want to clench? I’ll give you something to clench around.”
He spat on his finger and pushed it against the hole, forcing it in slow, one knuckle at a time.
I gasped, shocked at the stretch, at the way it made me feel both violated and alive.
He worked it in and out, shallow at first, then deeper, until I couldn’t tell where the pain stopped and the pleasure began.
He used his other hand to reach under and finger my pussy at the same time. I was crying now, not from pain, but from the intensity of it, from the sheer, unfiltered reality of what he was doing to me.
He leaned down, mouth hot against my ear. “You know what I want, Wren? I want to fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight tomorrow. I want you to remember who owns you every time you sit down. You think you can handle that?”
I shook my head, sobbing now. “No, I can’t, please—”
He bit the back of my neck, hard and drove his finger deeper. “Yes, you can. You’re gonna take it. Because that’s what you were made for.”
He kept it up, alternating between the two holes, until I was a mess of sweat and tears and shame. When he finally pulled his hands away, I felt empty and desperate, like I’d lost something important.
He flipped me onto my back again, took my face in his hands, and kissed me, slow and deep, like we had all the time in the world.
“You did so good,” he said. “Proud of you.”
I was still crying, but I smiled, just a little.
He stroked my hair, wiped the tears from my cheeks, then lay down next to me, pulling me into the curve of his body. I let myself melt into him, into the warmth and safety and promise of something bigger than myself.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.
He let me linger in the afterglow, let me believe for a few seconds that I’d survived the worst of it, that I could catch my breath and maybe start putting myself back together.
But then he shifted, rolled off the bed, and stood at the edge, looming in the dark like something engineered for violence.
I watched as he peeled off his shirt, exposing a body that was all muscle and scars, every inch of him mapped by old wounds and newer tattoos.
My eyes caught on the Force Recon emblem inked over his deltoid, then the line of script running down his ribs, then the pale lines of claw marks that looked more animal than human.
He unbuckled his belt, letting the metal clatter against the floor, and shucked his jeans with a casual efficiency that made my pulse skip.
He wore nothing underneath. Of course he didn’t.
I stared. I couldn’t help it. His cock was…
fuck. I had words for everything, but not this.
Big, obviously, but that wasn’t the half of it—thick, heavy, veined, with a head that looked engineered for maximum intimidation.
My breath caught, and my wolf, so recently subdued, went wild with a mixture of panic and anticipation.
He stroked it once, slowly, and I felt my insides clench with both terror and want.
He caught me staring, grinned like a bastard, then crawled back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He flipped me back onto my stomach and positioned himself behind me, hands splayed across my lower back, pressing me down into the sheets.
“You see this, little bird?” he said, voice all grit and honey. “You think you can take it?”
I looked at him over my shoulder and shook my head, honestly. “I don’t know.”
“You will.” He stroked himself, then lined up the head with my opening.
I was still wet, still leaking, but the stretch when he pushed in was like nothing I’d ever felt.
Not pain, exactly, but a sweet, tearing pressure that went all the way up my spine.
He went slowly at first, just the tip, then backed out and pushed in again, a little deeper each time.
I whined, a sound I hadn’t meant to make. He moaned, guttural, like the noise came from somewhere deep within. “Fuck, Parker, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “I’m gonna ruin you.”
He meant it. He bottomed out finally, and held there, grinding his hips into my ass. I could feel the pulse of his cock inside me, hot and insistent, and the sensation was overwhelming. He wrapped a hand around my throat, not squeezing, just holding, as if reminding me whose air I was breathing.
He started to move, slow at first, then faster. Each thrust rocked the bed, the headboard knocking a staccato rhythm against the wall. He kept up a steady stream of dirty talk, never letting me forget what I was, what he was doing to me.
“You like this, don’t you? Being fucked like a little toy? Letting me take whatever I want? You’re so wet, I could drown in you. You were made for me, you know that?”
I whimpered, tried to answer, but all that came out was another needy sound. He laughed, then bent forward, putting his mouth right next to my ear.
“You’re not getting my knot,” he said, voice barely more than a growl. “Not tonight. You know why?”
I shook my head, helpless.
He fucked me harder, the slap of his hips against my ass echoing through the room. “Because only my mate gets that. And I don’t have one.”
The words hit me like a punch. My wolf keened, an invisible agony that twisted in my gut.
I wanted it. I wanted it so bad I could taste the need in the back of my throat.
I’d never believed in mates, never let myself hope for anything so animal and absolute, but now the denial felt like a punishment worse than anything he’d done to my body.
He reached around and found my clit, rubbing it in hard, ruthless circles that made my toes curl and my vision blur. I felt the orgasm building again, bigger than before, a tidal wave that swept away all thought.
He bit down on my shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. “You gonna come for me, Wren? You gonna let me have it?”
I nodded, sobbing now. “Please, please—”
He sped up, fucking me with the kind of abandon that bordered on violence, and when I came, it was with a shudder that left me limp and shattered.
I clawed at the sheets, at his hand, at anything I could reach.
He kept going, kept talking, kept reminding me that I was his, that he could do whatever he wanted.
He pulled out at the last second, jerking himself off onto my back. I felt the hot splash, the proof of his victory, and it should have made me feel cheap, ruined. But instead, I felt a dark, twisted pride. I’d taken everything he had to give, and I was still here.
He lay next to me, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin.
He reached over, wiped the tears from my cheeks, then kissed me, soft and lingering, as if apologizing for what he’d just done.
There was no need to apologize. It wasn’t just my body that had wanted it.
My heart had too. I wanted him. All of him.
“You did good,” he said, voice gentler now. “You did so fucking good.”
I nodded, still crying, but not from pain.
He grabbed a towel from beside the bed and wiped his cum off my back. Then he pulled me into his arms, cradled me like something precious. I let myself rest there, let myself be small and safe.
But deep inside, I wanted more.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. He just held me, our bodies slick with sweat and spit and come, the sheets tangled under us like the aftermath of a bar brawl. The air was thick with the smell of us, sharp and sweet, and I breathed it in like it was the last clean air on earth.
Wrecker rolled me onto my side, tucked my back against his chest, and wrapped one arm around my ribs.
He bent his head and pressed soft kisses to my shoulder, my neck, the line of my jaw.
Each one landed with a sting of salt, and it took me a minute to realize I was still crying.
Not loud, not even sobbing—just a silent, unstoppable leak that wet the pillow and glued the hair to my face.
He kissed away the tears, slow and patient. At first, I thought he’d tease me for it, call me a baby or a drama queen. But he just kept kissing, working his way from my temple to my lips, then back again.
Finally, he spoke, voice barely above a rumble. “Talk to me, Wren.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”
“Too fucking bad,” he said, but there was no anger in it. “You don’t get to run off inside your head and leave me out here.”
I tried to laugh. It came out a foreign sound. “You’re not exactly on my couch taking confessions either, you know.”
He wiped my cheek with his thumb, more gentle than I’d ever imagined he could be. “I’m here. Right now. Not going anywhere.”
I closed my eyes, letting the words settle. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I lied. “Maybe just… it’s been a day.”
He grunted, unconvinced, but let it go. “You need anything?”
I shook my head again. But he was already moving, untangling himself from the sheets and crossing the room with that predatory, too-quiet stride.
I watched as he ducked into the bathroom, rummaged around, and came back with a warm, wet washcloth.
He knelt by the bed and started cleaning me up—between my thighs, over my belly, then my back where he’d left his mark.
He did it with a kind of reverence, as if he was cataloging the places he’d broken me so he could fix them again.
When he finished, he tossed the cloth into the laundry basket and climbed back in.
He grabbed the glass of water from my nightstand, held it to my lips, and watched while I drank.
I was still shaking, but he didn’t mention it.
He just pulled me close, draped his arm over my body, and pressed his nose into my hair.
The weight of him was absolute. Immovable.
I felt small, and for once it wasn’t a curse.
I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to stay awake and memorize every second, every breath, every heartbeat. But exhaustion hit me like a tranquilizer dart, and I could feel myself sliding under.
Right before I let go, I heard his voice, soft and dangerous, right by my ear. “Someday,” he whispered, “I’m putting my mark right here. Where everyone can see.”
The thought sent a bolt of pain through my chest, but I didn’t say anything. I just curled into the hollow of his body, let the wolf in me whimper and keen, and waited for morning.
I dreamed of nothing, and woke to his arms still around me, the scent of oak and citrus thick in the air, and the echo of his words branded on my skin.