3. Chapter Three #3
She whimpers, a broken little sound that wrecks something dark and possessive inside me. Her body melts against mine, pliant and trembling, her mouth working frantically against mine like she needs this kiss to survive.
Good.
Because she won’t just feel me tonight.
She’ll carry the marks long after I’m done.
I tear away from her mouth, breathing harshly as I shove her roughly down onto the bed. She lands with a sharp gasp, thighs spreading instinctively, her pussy swollen and glistening, exposed to my hungry gaze, begging without words.
“Spread,” I demand, voice shredded by restraint that’s about to snap. “Let me see what’s mine.”
Her obedience is immediate, thighs falling open wider, trembling with a mixture of fear and want beneath my ruthless scrutiny.
Her cunt is soaked, flushed pink, swollen, aching visibly around emptiness.
I run two fingers through her slick folds, spreading her open just to watch her drip, just to watch her shudder beneath my touch.
“Look at you,” I murmur roughly, almost to myself. “Fucking starving for me.”
She nods frantically, breath hitching, desperation coloring her pleas. “Yes, yes, please…”
I don’t let her finish.
I grip her hips hard, dragging her flush to the edge of the mattress. I line my cock up, stroking the tip through her folds, catching her clit just long enough to feel her squirm and buck against me.
Then I slam home.
All of me, buried to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
She screams, a raw, broken sound ripped from deep within, her back arching violently off the bed, body shuddering beneath mine. Her cunt clamps around me, squeezing tight, fighting to accommodate me, stretched and trembling, torn between ecstasy and agony.
Perfect. Fucking exquisite.
I feel her pulse around me, the desperate flutter of her walls, her slick, hot, tight body swallowing me whole.
The world shrinks down to this brutal union, her shattered breaths, the violent rhythm of her surrender.
She claws at the sheets, at her own hair, at my skin, wild and desperate, clinging as I tear through every carefully constructed facade.
“Fuck,” she sobs, voice cracking, shaking, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Pain and pleasure war openly across her face, raw and vivid, the polished, untouchable princess splintering beneath me.
I watch it happen with cruel satisfaction, watching her unravel with every savage thrust, every ruthless claim, stripping her down to bare, helpless need.
The woman who thought she had control, now ruined and dripping over my cock.
Pure greed.
Pure submission.
Pure fucking desperation.
I was wrong.
She’s not just going to wear this.
She’s going to drown in it.
Camille
It’s too much.
The stretch. The pressure. The way his cock splits me wide, forces me open, claims every inch of space like it was molded to ruin me.
And somehow, it’s perfect.
I can’t breathe through the burn, can’t think through the fullness. My spine bows, knees digging into the mattress as I lock my legs around his waist, like if I let go he’ll disappear, and I’ll fall apart in the worst way.
His hand clamps down on my jaw, fingers biting into my cheeks, tilting my face until I have no choice but to look at him.
And God…the look in his eyes
Not lust.
Not even just possession.
It’s something worse.
Something deeper.
Like he sees every dirty thought I’ve never admitted, every secret I’ve buried under polished smiles and designer dresses. And he likes it. Wants it. Wants me…not the Camille they built, but the one I’ve spent my whole life trying to kill.
“Camille.”
My name is a threat on his tongue. Like sweet torture.
He pulls out…slow, devastating inches that make my body seize, and slams back in with a force that knocks my breath straight out of me.
“Take every fucking inch,” he growls.
The bed groans beneath us. My body does too, loud and frantic and filthy as I arch up into him, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. I clench around him, a reflex I can’t control, desperate to hold onto something that’s destroying me from the inside out.
And then I snap.
My body convulses, mouth opening on a sob I can’t swallow fast enough. I come hard…shattering, clenching, breaking apart in his arms like I was meant to be undone by him. Like I was built for this moment, for him.
The moans spill out of me raw and broken and embarrassingly loud, until his hand covers my mouth.
Not sweetly.
Not to soothe me.
He grabs my face, palm over lips, holding me there like he needs to feel my ruin, like he wants every breath to belong to him.
But it’s not enough.
It never is.
He thrusts again, harder, deeper, and my whole body jerks, helpless beneath the weight of him. My hips are pinned. My thoughts are gone. I’m nothing but sensation and sound and the terrifying ache of wanting more.
My head thrashes against the pillows as pleasure crests again, fast and brutal, until his fingers fist in my hair and yank. My back arches, a sharp gasp caught in my throat as he drags me up, forces my eyes to his again.
“Look at me,” he snaps, low and vicious. “You don’t look away until you’re fucking done.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever be done.
Not with him inside me like this, filling me, fucking me, breaking me in all the places I used to be strong. My lashes flutter, vision blurring as he buries himself to the hilt and stays there, grinding slow, deep, and possessive.
I gasp. “More…”
It slips out before I can stop it.
“More,” I beg again. “Please… I need…”
He stills.
His chest rises and falls against mine, rough and heaving, and for a split second I think I’ve ruined it. Pushed too far. Asked for more than even he is willing to give.
Then his mouth curves.
A slow, feral grin.
“I knew it,” he says. “I knew you’d break so fucking pretty.”
In the next second, I’m weightless.
Flipped onto my stomach, forced flat against the bed with my ass high, my body trembling from the sudden shift. One hand spreads across my lower back, the other tangling tight at the base of my skull. His fingers yank, and I writhe.
He pulls my hips up and open, pushing me into the mattress until my cheeks against the sheets, breath hot and ragged as he positions himself behind me.
And then he slams into me again.
No warning. No softness.
He fucks me like he owns me, like every part of me, every thought, every hole, every fucking sob is his.
My hair’s an anchor in his grip, every backward tug matched with a brutal thrust that rips another sound from my throat. I claw at the sheets, nails catching on fabric, eyes rolling back as shame and arousal flood through me in equal waves.
I should be humiliated.
I should be ashamed.
But I’m not.
I’m soaked. Clenching. Moaning.
And he knows.
His mouth brushes my neck, his voice a low rasp that burns straight through me.
“Now,” he whispers, voice wicked and slow. “Show me how much more you can take.”
He pounds into me harder, relentless and punishing, and I sob into the sheets, loud and unfiltered, my entire body vibrating beneath the force of it.
It’s unbearable.
It’s addictive.
It’s perfect.
I don’t know where I end and he begins anymore. I don’t care. I just want him to keep going. To keep taking. Until there’s nothing left but his breath in my lungs, his fingerprints on my skin, and his taste in my mouth.
When it finally ends, when my body collapses under the weight of it all, boneless and raw, he doesn’t let me go.
He pulls me back into his chest, strong arms coiled around my waist, keeping me there.
Held. Owned. Kept.
His mouth finds my ear, voice soft and dangerous. “Sleep, Princesa,” he murmurs, a promise tucked beneath every syllable. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”
And maybe I should feel caged.
Maybe I should fight the possessiveness laced through his voice.
But I don’t.
Because somewhere in the wreckage of who I was it feels like safety.
Like freedom.
Like surrendering was always the answer.
***
I wake softly, the faint blush of dawn slipping through the curtains, coloring the penthouse in shades of smoke and amber.
My body aches, beautifully bruised, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his ruthless possession burned into every nerve.
Slowly, carefully, I turn onto my side, and my breath catches.
He lies on his back, breathing deep, eyes closed, vulnerable in sleep. It’s the only softness I’ve seen in him, the only time the dangerous, relentless edge isn’t sharpening his features. For a long moment, I allow myself to truly look.
His beauty is rugged, brutal, devastatingly masculine.
Dark hair, tousled and shadowed against the pillow.
Sharp jawline, dusted with stubble I still feel scraping between my thighs.
His chest rises and falls, broad and powerful, every muscle defined, sculpted from strength, dominance, raw violence.
My eyes follow the ink etched into his skin, intricate tattoos sprawled across his shoulders and chest, swirling down his powerful arms. Bold, dark lines curve over lean muscle, mysterious symbols and hidden meanings I crave to unravel.
Scattered among them are scars, marks of violence, sharp-edged and vicious, fading to pale reminders against his bronzed skin.
A brutal, precise, jagged scare slashed across his ribs.
A deep scar just below his collarbone, violent proof of a past I can only imagine.
My pulse quickens as I drink in every ruthless detail, my fingertips aching with the need to trace those scars, to ask for their secrets.
To taste the violence they hold. To hear him whisper the stories he hides behind those dangerous eyes.
My gaze trails lower, down his chiseled stomach, the sharp lines of his abdomen leading to the place where the sheets rest low on his hips, black silk barely covering him.
My mouth goes dry, heart pounding as I stare hungrily, remembering exactly what lies beneath that fragile barrier.
The taste, the weight, the fullness that left me trembling, undone, broken in his arms.
I swallow thickly, thighs clenching, desire stirring hot and reckless all over again.
I could move the sheet. I could wake him, slide down his body, take him in my mouth, feel his fingers tangle in my hair again.
Taste him, claim him, have him continue his lesson in…
breath control… giving and taking… choking…
And the worst part, the most terrifying, intoxicating part is how badly I want it again. How desperately my body craves to surrender once more, to be shattered and rebuilt by his hands, his mouth, his ruthless commands.
I catch myself reaching out before I can stop, my fingertips hovering inches from the black silk that covers him. My hand trembles slightly, and for a single, reckless heartbeat, I almost…
No .
I pull back sharply, breath shaking free. I can’t do this again. I can’t lose myself deeper in the obsession of a night I was never supposed to have. Already, he’s left bruises beneath my skin, fingerprints on my soul. One more touch, one more taste, and I might never leave.
Slowly, silently, I slip from the bed, my body protesting every step.
The ache between my legs, raw and tender, is a constant reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me.
My blue silk dress lies discarded on the floor, crumpled, a relic from another life.
It feels strange pulling it back over my skin, like trying to fit myself into a shape I’ve already broken.
I gather my scattered belongings, heart pounding quietly as I pad barefoot across cold marble, the quiet hum of dawn pressing against me.
In his bathroom, I pause. The woman staring back at me from the mirror isn’t Camille Sinclair, not the polished heiress.
She’s someone new. Someone unraveled. Doe-eyed, flushed, with dark circles from mascara that’s smudged by tears and passion.
Soft skin, neck, chest, cheeks marred bruises, faint now, but not unnoticeable.
This woman…this woman is one he’s remade overnight.
Almost without thinking, I reach into my purse, fingertips finding my lipstick, Rosewood, and slowly glide it over my swollen lips.
Leaning forward, I press a deliberate kiss against the mirror’s smooth surface, leaving behind an imprint.
A mark. Proof I was here. Proof he touched me, broke me, and left me wanting more.
I step back, studying that defiant kiss, something reckless and bold flaring in my chest. A declaration of war or surrender, I don’t even know anymore.
Grabbing my heels in one hand, I move quietly to the penthouse door, pulse racing, heart heavy with something close to regret. But I don’t look back. I don’t whisper goodbye.
Because if I do, if I turn around, see him again, even sleeping, vulnerable, brutally perfect, I know I’ll never make it out the door.
So I slip away, breath tight, my lipstick on his mirror, my taste still on his sheets, and leave behind a piece of me I’ll never get back.