Chapter 40 #4
His hands were everywhere, mapping my body like he meant to own each curve and hollow. He gripped my thighs, spreading them wider, possessive, rough, as if daring me to try and close them again.
His fingers slid up, teasing the tender flesh between my legs, trailing heat that made my muscles jump and shiver.
His breath rough in my ear, his voice a growl, “You want me to touch you, Amelia?” He didn’t wait for the answer; his hand was already there, palm cupping, thumb dragging up through the sensitive heat. I bit my lip, but the moan escaped anyway.
He bit my shoulder, not gently, sucking a mark deep into my skin while his fingers worked. Circling, rubbing, relentless.
My hips rocked up, searching for more friction, more pressure, but he held me pinned to the bed, refusing to let me take what I wanted.
It was the hunger of years finally uncaged, and the monster he became was the one I’d always been terrified—and desperate—to touch.
His mouth traveled, devouring me inch by inch, greed painted in the bite of his teeth and the perfect, searing pass of his tongue across my throat, my collarbone, the soft undercurve of my breast while his fingers inched lower.
A dark, brutal sound vibrated in his chest. “So fucking wet for me, even now,” he said, voice pure gravel. “Did you ever think about this, about me taking you apart?”
I couldn’t answer. The only thing in my brain was the sensation of his fingers parting me, the way he circled my clit, deliberate and slow at first, then harder.
He pushed inside, thick fingers stretching me open, filling me, and the sound that tore out of me was helpless.
He kept at it, working me, until I started grinding against his palm, a writhing, pathetic thing. Sparks exploded behind my eyelids.
I was dissolving, melting, undone.
His fingers wrecked me, tearing me open, working deeper until I was unsure where I ended, and he began. I couldn’t stop moaning. Didn’t try. Filthy, frantic noises, each one making his grip on my hips even harder, bruising, greedy.
He wanted me like prey, and I let him, spreading for him, trembling, begging without words.
My breath shattered against his mouth. He released my wrists, only to grip my chin, forcing my eyes to his. His pupils were blown, wild with need, hunger, and hatred churning together.
I should’ve felt afraid, but all I felt was raw relief.
I tried to clutch at his shoulders, at anything, but he forced my hands above my head again, pinning me in place so I couldn’t do anything but take it.
“Caiden,” I gasped.
He laughed, but it was cold, cruel. “You’re so fucking wet for me, Amelia, you want me to fuck you or you want me to tease you until you break?”
I could barely breathe. “I want you. Please.”
My back arched, wordless, desperate, a groan twisting from my throat. It hurt. It felt so fucking good. The friction of his palm, the thrust of his fingers, building and building, merciless.
He withdrew his fingers, leaving me shuddering, oversensitive. He licked the taste of me from his hand, savoring it. “I used to call you a freak, you know that? But look at you. God, you’re perfect.”
He lined himself over me, heavy, cock pressing hungry against my entrance. I was panting, frantic, reaching for him, but he slammed my wrists back above my head and held them with one hand, careless, dominant, like it was nothing.
His cock pushed inside, thick, brutal, inexorable. I moaned, legs flying up, thighs trembling as he powered in, filling me to the hilt. No mercy. I clenched, stretching around him, so fucking full I thought I’d die.
He set a rhythm, relentless, driving, fucking me into the thin motel mattress so every thrust made the headboard rattle.
I was lost, gone, world reduced to his cock, his hands, the way he bit and marked every tender inch of me. His palm wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, controlling, owning. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, fuck, please…”
He snapped his hips faster.
I wanted to consume him, to erase the history that kept us orbiting each other like binary stars, always close enough to feel the heat, never close enough to merge.
I let him split me open, let him memorize the shape of my want, let him see the bad and the holy inside me.
We didn’t speak, because words would have shattered the rawness. Instead, we talked in gasps and whimpers, in the slap of skin on skin.
I’d spent most of my life afraid to need anything, least of all a person like Caiden, a person who burned so hot and mean it sometimes felt like being consumed alive.
I felt myself unraveling, the ache doubling back on itself, as if my body had been waiting years for this precise brutality, for the privilege of being broken and remade by his hands.
I clawed at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, and he rewarded me with a low, guttural sound that made me want to shatter all over again.
He seemed to live for it, the way I broke for him, the way he could take what he wanted and still pull me back from the dark at the last second.
He kept his promises: he made me his.
“Harder,” I gasped, and he gave it to me, slamming into me with a tempo that was as much violence as it was devotion.
He pinned my wrists above my head, hands so big and rough it bruised, but the thrill of it, the helplessness, was like a drug.
I bucked under him, wanting every inch, every ounce of the furious love he could give.
He shifted onto his knees, his hands rough and possessive as they gripped my hips, lifting me just enough to drive his cock deeper, angling it in a way that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The head of his dick brushed against that spot inside me, the one that made my vision blur and my thighs tremble.
He didn’t let up, hitting it again and again, each thrust harder than the last, until the sensation was a wildfire. Pain and pleasure tangled together in a way that felt divine and obscene.
My breath left me in a cry, ragged and desperate, and I swear I could feel the heat of his need boiling over, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge.
“Fuck, Amelia, you feel so good,” he groaned, his voice cracking, raw and broken.
He drove into me harder, losing the careful cadence, letting himself get ragged and rough.
I was gasping his name, not even words, just the syllable, and he drank it down, his fingers digging into my ass to hold me exactly where he wanted.
The friction reminded me I wasn’t a ghost or a memory but alive, here, now.
He pulled out abruptly, the sudden emptiness making me whimper, and rolled me onto my stomach, a move so sudden it knocked the air out of me.
He gathered my hair in his fist, yanking it back as he arched my spine, crawling up behind me until his chest pressed hot against my back, his cock sliding between my thighs.
His mouth hovered at my ear, his breath ragged, his words sandpaper against my skin.
“Look at you,” he said, low and awed, like I was something holy and forbidden. “I always knew you’d ruin me.”
He pushed back in with no warning, filling me so deep I thought I’d break.
I cried out, my cheek grinding against the rough polyester of the sheets as I felt myself dissolving, but the ache was perfect. A lightning bolt that radiated from my core to every nerve in my body.
I felt him grinding against my ass, the angle so deep I could barely breathe.
His hand curled around my throat, just enough to remind me who I was with, who I’d chosen. The pressure was a warning: not to be scared, but to surrender.
I bucked against him, greedy for the friction, greedy for everything, wanting to be devoured and spit out new.
He fucked me from behind, slow at first, letting me feel every inch, every stretch, every collision of his hips against my ass.
Each thrust drove me up the bed, and I clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto.
I felt exposed, raw, split open in a way that made me ache for more.
He was everywhere. His hands bruising my hips, his mouth on my neck, his cock deep enough to make me see stars.
The sound in the room was obscene, wet and frantic, the slap of skin on skin overlaid by my moans and his low, broken growls.