Chapter Twenty #4
I managed to catch her frown as I fisted my rigid length. I lined myself up with her entrance, and she hissed at the soft brush. The urge to glide my cock over her wetness like I loved to do hit me fiercely, but I held back and pushed the swollen crown of myself into her tight heat.
She gripped my shoulders, a gasp leaving her lips. “Please go slow. You feel so fucking thick.”
And she felt so tight. Perfect.
I held onto her waist before both my hands palmed her ass, squeezing and lifting her as I sank her onto my length, also raising my hips slowly until I was completely sheathed inside her. I let out an almost feral groan. She gripped me, wrapped me around her walls—hot and pulsing.
Soft gasps escaped our mouths at the same time, in sync as always—my chest burned.
My heart was slamming, aching to let myself feel this, to let myself go with this, knowing it would feel so much fucking better with the emotions I held for her, with how much I cared.
I fought for control.
“Grip the headboard. Hard,” I told her, and her hands left my shoulders as she steadied herself, her breasts in my face, begging for a suck that I couldn’t help but succumb to, my tongue curling and sucking against the firm nub of her pierced nipple.
She rotated her hips around me, seeking friction. I gave her the friction, lifting her with my hands still gripping her ass as I pulled far out and shoved back inside her again.
A moan tore from her lips as she rocked her hips, sucking the breath out of my lungs as I thrust inside her slowly, rolling my hips as she followed my pace.
I took my time, going deeper and slower like I wanted her to fill all of me, every inch, every vein, every twitch and pulse that rocked through my length, as it begged for release, begging to take her harder, shatter her beyond her mind’s comprehension.
My mind was winning. The emotions were piercing, my thoughts were turning, gears shifting, and I was driven by pure lust and anger.
My grip tightened on her as I pulled out and thrust back in with one hard push, the force working her body, making her breasts bounce, making her moan loudly as I filled her tight cunt, and fucked her.
I fucked Zahra, hard and fast, relentless and merciless, rough and raw, my hips slapping against her skin, sounding like fucking poetry to the soul.
The necklace I bought for her glinted as she moved, pressed against her skin, sticking to the sweat that had taken hold of her body, just like mine.
Her breaths shot out in gasps and whimpers; her eyes screwed shut in pain and pleasure. I took her in, sucked in every expression she gave, and planted them tightly in my memory.
Pain split my chest in half, and I closed my eyes and dropped my head on her shoulder as I pounded into her, my fingers going to rub her swollen clit, sensitive to the touch, addicted to the feeling against the pads of my fingers.
“Elio,” she moaned my name, a prayer on her lips. I loved it, and I hated it. My pretense was fighting with my feelings.
My mind was a maze, lost to the pleasure she gave me and the pain she dished out.
I was taking it all, accepting it, embracing it … fuck—
I wasn’t cherishing this body, I was using it. I wasn’t keeping this body, I was manhandling it. I wasn’t adoring this body, I was disrespecting it. I wasn’t worshiping this body, I was fucking it.
I flipped our positions until she was on all fours, and I was slamming into her again, piercing her with my thrusts, harder and faster with each push.
I ravaged her, squeezed her ass cheeks, slapped them, and I loved the gasp that left her.
I bruised her perfect skin, loving the imprint of my hand on her.
My woman was moaning loudly, screaming, begging, sweating, completely undone, just like she had done to me, but she was meeting each of my thrusts, speed for speed, challenge for challenge; she liked it rough, liked me rough.
“Elio, please,” she begged.
“You want more?”
Her hips buckled, her ass bouncing and shaking with each slap of my hips. “Oh fuck, yes.”
“You like this? Do you like it rough? Hm? Is this what really gets you off? Have you been faking it with me all this time, little slut?”
She cried when my palm connected hard with her cheeks. I loved watching the spot go red; I loved it so much that my chest strung tight.
I had never been this rough with anyone. This was carnal. An act I didn’t know I could pull off.
Zahra Faizan made me feel everything differently: hate, anger, addiction, and care, a deep-rooted care that had woven thorns around my heart, strings connecting directly to her.
I felt my release edging close; at the same time, her heat pulsed around my rock-hard length.
I pulled out. Flipped her over again, her back to the mattress as I lifted her leg, raising it to rest on my shoulder, spreading her glistening pussy, the deep-pink shade pulsing with need.
Our gazes locked, and so did my chest. Her eyes were hooded, red-rimmed like she was biting back tears. Were they of pleasure? Or could she feel the anger buzzing in me?
I shifted my gaze, refused to indulge her stare as I eased into her again, and a strangled noise left her throat as one of my hands encircled it, squeezing, not enough to make her pass out, but enough to bruise her.
I rocked my hips, in and out of her, appreciating how she clenched so fucking tight around me.
The other hand that held her leg to my shoulder went down to her clit as I rubbed the same pace I fucked.
Harder and faster, and faster and faster, until my mind was blank. I could feel the dig of her fingernails on my forearm, and I caught her eyes rolling back, and her cunt held tight against my cock.
“Oh fuuucck,” she cried. She convulsed, she shattered, she was a mess of body shakes and tremors as she erupted, coming all over my cock, her moans tight—she was so wet and lubricated, so fucking good that I drew tight, and could feel my orgasm at the edge.
I pulled out and fisted my length, and with three strokes, I spurted against her stomach, my hips jerking at the force of my release, a groan falling from my lips as I spaced out for seconds on end, my body shuddering.
I released my hold around her neck, placing my palm flat beside her head as she calmed down from her high.
“You didn’t come in me,” she noted, her eyes looking wary, a distant heaviness I couldn’t understand.
“Too intimate,” I told her.
Her throat worked as her lips formed a slight downturn, and she shifted in discomfort.
“You’re angry at me,” she noted yet again, and my eyes held hers.
I don’t know how long we stayed there, staring at each other, unspoken emotions swinging this way and that between us, until I found the courage to speak.
“We need to talk.”