Chapter 3 #3
"Look at how wet you are for me," I say, voice guttural, barely human. "Look at this pussy, Sharma. It knows. Your body knows what you won't admit."
She turns her head away, jaw tight, gaze averted, but her hips lift, offering. Begging.
I settle between her thighs, shouldering them wider, and breathe her in. The scent is intoxicating—slick heat, need, *her*. I run my nose up her inner thigh, scraping my stubbled jaw against the delicate skin, feeling her quiver.
"Roan," she breathes, and there's real panic there now, the control freak realizing she's pinned, vulnerable, about to lose the last of her defenses. "What are you—"
"I'm going to eat you," I tell her, looking up her body, meeting her terrified, aroused eyes. "I'm going to put my mouth on your pretty little cunt and lick you until you forget your own name. Until the only word you know is mine."
She whimpers, hands flying to my hair, uncertain whether to push me away or pull me closer.
I drag my tongue through her folds in one long, filthy stroke.
The sound she makes is inhuman—a sob, a scream, a prayer.
Her back arches off the bed, her heels digging into my shoulders, and I hold her hips down with both hands, pinning her to the mattress while I feast. She tastes like liquid sugar and salt, like surrender.
I lick into her, pointed and relentless, fucking her with my tongue, learning the shape of her, the flutter of her entrance.
She's drenched, my chin shining with her arousal, and I groan against her, letting the vibration roll through her sensitive flesh.
"Oh God, oh God—" she chants, thrashing, pulling my hair hard enough to sting. "It's too much, it's—"
It's not enough. I flatten my tongue against her clit, lapping in slow, torturous circles, feeling it swell against my mouth.
Her thighs tense, shaking on either side of my head.
I keep her spread wide, refusing to let her hide from the pleasure, from the intimacy of my mouth owning her most private place.
I suck the hardened nub between my lips, flicking it rapidly, and her cries turn desperate, broken.
I add a finger, sliding one thick digit into her tight, untouched heat. She's burning velvet, gripping me instantly, and the thought that my cock will soon be there nearly undoes me. I curl my finger, finding the rough patch inside her that makes her freeze, then shatter.
"There?" I growl against her pussy, the word muffled, hot.
"Yes, yes, fuck, right there—"
I add a second finger, stretching her carefully, scissoring them while my mouth returns to her clit.
I build a rhythm—sucking, curling, pressing—wrecking her systematically.
Every time she gets close, I back off, blowing cool air over her heated flesh, letting her hover on the edge until she's weeping, tears tracking into her hair.
"Please," she begs, the control completely gone, her hips chasing my mouth. "Please, Roan, I need to—please let me—"
"Let you what?" I demand, licking her thigh, my fingers still buried deep, stroking that spot with maddening patience. "Say it, Sharma. Tell me what you need."
"I need to come," she sobs, the admission ripped from somewhere primal and helpless. "Please, make me come, I can't—please—"
The word *please* on her lips is the final fracture.
I seal my mouth over her clit and suck, hard, merciless, fingers pumping into her, grinding against that spot inside her.
She shatters instantly, the orgasm ripping through her with brutal force.
Her thighs clamp around my head, her internal muscles clamping down on my fingers in rhythmic spasms, her cry long and keening, a sound of absolute annihilation.
She comes and comes, flooding my mouth, my chin, her entire body convulsing as I lick her through it, prolonging the waves, not letting her descend.
"Mine," I growl into her sensitive, pulsing flesh, scraping my teeth gently over her swollen clit, making her gasp and arch. "Say it."
She shakes her head, stubborn even now, even with my mouth wet with her release and her legs shaking apart.
I withdraw my fingers, earning a sob of protest, and surge up her body.
My mouth, coated in her taste, crashes against hers in a kiss that makes her whimper—she can taste herself on my tongue, the raw intimacy of it making her shudder.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, using my body to cage her.
My other hand goes back between her legs.
She's hypersensitive, swollen, dripping.
I work her clit in tight, merciless circles, relentless, forcing her back up the peak before she can recover.
She thrashes beneath me, oversensitive, overwhelmed, her body trying to escape the pleasure even as she craves it.
"No more," she pants, but her hips lift into my hand. "I can't—"
"You can." I suck her lower lip into my mouth, bite down. "Give me another one. Give it to me before I fuck you. I want you empty of everything but me before I'm inside you."
I strum her clit, faster, harder, grinding the heel of my palm against her entrance.
She falls apart beneath me within seconds, the second orgasm hitting her almost violently, her back bowing, her breasts pressing into my chest, her scream swallowed by my mouth.
She lies there, wrecked, gasping, her pussy fluttering against my hand, her entire body limp and glowing with sweat.
Only then do I strip. My shirt goes in shreds. My shorts follow. My cock springs free, heavy and dark with need, and her eyes go wide, fear flickering through the haze of heat, but she's too spent to tense up.
"It'll fit," I promise, crawling over her, caging her beneath me. "You're soaked open for me, baby. You're ready. Just breathe."
I line up, notch the head against her entrance, feeling that first kiss of slick heat against my swollen flesh.
The sensation rips a groan from my chest, primal and raw.
She's soft now, relaxed from her orgasms, but still impossibly tight.
I push in, slow, fighting every instinct that screams at me to thrust, to knot, to claim.
She moans, long and low, her head falling back, neck exposed.
She's burning. Velvet vise, scalding tight, gripping me in rhythmic pulses that make my vision gray at the edges. I watch her face, cataloging every flinch, every hitch of breath. She's so sensitive from coming twice that every inch I gain makes her shudder, her eyes rolling back.
"More," she demands, nails scoring my back, drawing blood. Her voice is hoarse, feral. "Give me more."
I sink deeper, inch by torturous inch, until I'm seated to the root, my balls against her ass, my cock throbbing inside her untouched heat. We freeze there, linked, breathing hard, the bond a live wire between us, a voltage neither of us asked for.
"Move," she whispers, and her eyes are wet, tears tracking into her hair, but she's smiling—feral and victorious. "Fuck me, Roan. Make it hurt so I know it's real."
I lose the thread of gentleness.
I pull out and slam back in, and she screams, not in pain but in release, in finally—finally—letting go.
I set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, the bed creaking beneath us, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. She meets me, rising to meet each stroke, her ankles locking at my lower back, holding me inside.
The room fills with the sounds of it—flesh slapping, our ragged breath, the wet obscene sound of my cock driving into her slick pussy. I angle my hips, grinding against her clit with every stroke, feeling the spiral tightening in her belly, feeling her begin to clench around me.
"Not yet," I snarl, flipping us without breaking the connection.
She lands astride me, eyes wide, hands flying to my chest for balance. The shift drives me deeper, and we both groan, the sound harmonizing into something that resonates through my bones.
"Ride me," I command, gripping her hips, guiding her movement. "Take what you need."
"I… can't," she says. I grab her hips, rotating them.
Letting her learn our stride. She braces her knees on the mattress, rising and falling in an awkward, desperate rhythm, finding her pace.
Her head falls back, hair a wild halo, breasts swaying, and she's destroying me.
She's every fantasy I never let myself have, every nightmare I deserved, culminating in this moment of perfect, terrible union.
I reach between us, thumb finding her clit, strumming it in time with her movements. She shatters instantly, the orgasm ripping through her with brutal force, her internal muscles clamping down on my cock in rhythmic spasms that drag my own release from me.
I roar, sitting up, wrapping one arm around her waist, burying my face in her neck. The knot swells at the base of my cock, locking us together, expanding to fill her, stretching her around me until she's sobbing my name, coming again—harder this time—around the impossible girth of it.
The release tears through me, thought gone, the Pact gone, every cruel word I ever spoke to her gone with it. I spurt inside her, flooding her, marking her from the inside out, and she takes it, nails digging crescents into my shoulders, claiming me right back.
We collapse sideways, still locked, the knot pulsing between us, my cock jerking with aftershocks, her pussy fluttering in residual spasms. The sweat on her skin tastes of salt and victory. Her heartbeat hammers against my chest, syncing with mine until I can't tell whose rhythm is whose.
Time dilates. The light moves across the floor, shadows lengthening. I trace patterns on her back, circles and loops, learning the geography of her spine. She lies quiet, her face pressed into my throat, breathing me in.
The knot slowly subsides, the biology releasing us from the lock, but I don't pull out. I stay inside her, half-hard already, knowing I could go again in minutes if she so much as shifts her hips.
"This changes nothing," she murmurs, the words muffled against my skin.
"Liar."
She pulls back enough to glare, but the effect is ruined by the swelling of her lips, the marks on her neck—my marks, purple and possessive. "I still hate you for what you did."
"Good." I tuck a coil of hair behind her ear, my hand certain in a way my mind isn't, for a man whose world just inverted. "Hate me while I fuck you. Hate me when you come. Hate me when I knot you again tonight, and tomorrow, and every day until you don't remember how to hate anyone else."
Her eyes flash, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she shifts, a deliberate roll of her hips that makes me hiss, still sensitive. "Again?" she challenges.
I flip her, pinning her wrists above her head, settling deep into the cradle of her thighs. "Again."
We move slower this time, the edge blunted but the need still sharp.
I learn her—what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, the spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back.
She learns me, tentative touches becoming greedy in return.
The second knot takes longer to build, a tide rather than a break — building, not crashing.
When it locks us together again, she's crying, and I'm whispering apologies into her hair, not for the sex but for the years, for the cruelty, for the blindness that made me destroy the only thing I've ever truly wanted.
After, after the light goes flat and gray against the floor, she sleeps. My thumb traces the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her pulse, the way her hand curls against my chest even in dreams like she's afraid I'll vanish. The reckoning is immediate.
I think of Dad. Of finding him curled around Mom's pillow three years after she died, thirty pounds lighter, the light gone from his eyes.
I think of the Pact, the sacred promise broken now, cracked through at the root, the way a contract cracks under review — clause by clause, then the whole thing void.
I did this. I chose this. And if she leaves—when she remembers why she should hate me—I will unravel exactly like he did.
No pact, no pride, no walls left to hide behind.
Sharma stirs, frowning in her sleep. I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of us mixed together—my cedar and citrus drowned in her honeyed heat.
Outside, the ocean crashes on, indifferent.
Through the open window, I hear voices—Hunter's lawyer-bark, Jaleesa's laugh, the distant sound of staff setting up for the evening's meal, chairs scraping across stone.
The world continues, oblivious to the cataclysm in this room.
The bubble is already thinning. Soon she'll wake, and the memory of every wound I inflicted will surface again, sharper now for the intimacy we just shared.
She'll remember that love destroyed my family.
She'll remember that I'm the man who made her feel small.
She'll leave. And I'll be left here, knotted to a ghost, holding the empty space where she was, finally understanding exactly what Dad felt in those long, last days.
Nope. fuck that.