Hook #3
My cock is throbbing now, full and dark with the need to finally ruin her, to make her body forget how to function without mine. And so I do.
I push in.
Not gently. Not slowly. Not some fabricated fantasy of love.
This is conquest. This is war.
She gasps like I’ve gutted her.
But her hips rise to meet mine.
Like her body’s been waiting its whole fucking life to be used like this.
Her wrists strain against the silk, her thighs try to close but I’m already too deep, too far gone, and I pin them wide with a growl in her ear.
“You’re going to take it, Tahlia. Every inch. Every thrust. Every filthy fucking word I feed you.”
Her breath shatters into fragments as I roll my hips again, slower this time—torturously slow—and watch her unravel beneath me.
“I hate you,” she breathes.
“I know,” I say, teeth dragging along the shell of her ear. “Hate me harder.”
I angle my hips, grind into that spot that makes her eyes roll back—and I stay there. Right there. Ruthless. Unrelenting.
Until she’s panting, gasping, desperate.
But still I don’t let her fall.
Instead, I pull out.
She sobs.
Not a dramatic sound—just the quiet, raw, real kind. The sound of a woman who’s being taken apart with precision. A sound that makes me press a kiss to her throat and whisper the final blow:
“You cum now, and I won’t touch you for a week. Do you understand?”
She shakes. Trembles.
Her body is soaked and pulsing and begging—but her voice is hoarse when she replies, “Yes.”
“Good girl,” I whisper. And I don’t even give her the satisfaction of more. Not yet.
I just hold her there.
Ruined.
Wrecked.
Mine.
She’s shaking beneath me.
I let her ache with it.
Let her stew in the denial, the aching, throbbing void I carved out of her with nothing but words and rhythm and the brutal rhythm of my hips that now she can’t forget, no matter how many times she swears she’ll never want me again.
Her thighs twitch. Her eyes water.
She tries not to whimper.
Fails.
And it’s that whimper—soft, pathetic, real—that makes my cock twitch again, still hard, still unsatisfied, because punishing her has become the only goddamn thing that satisfies me.
“You thought I’d give you mercy?” I ask, voice like smoke, low and cruel as I run the back of my fingers down her slick, trembling stomach. “You thought tears would earn you kindness?”
She says nothing.
Smart girl.
Her silence is the only thing that saves her from a worse punishment—because if she begged, I’d deny her again. If she cried, I’d feed her those tears and smile.
Instead, I lean in until my mouth is at her throat and I whisper it.
The truth.
“I bought you.”
She jerks like I slapped her.
But I keep going.
“Not from a man. From the system. From every desperate hand that passed you like property. Every foster file, every therapy report, every fucker who gave up trying to fix you. You were never a girl to them—you were a liability, a risk, a future cautionary tale.”
My lips graze her temple now, cruel and quiet.
“I read every word. Paid every price. Burnt every copy.”
Now she struggles.
Now she fights.
Good.
Let her.
“I own every trace of you,” I breathe, tilting her face to mine with a grip so gentle it mocks the violence in my voice. “And I’ll take what’s mine. Whenever I want. However I want.”
I drag my cock along her entrance again—not pushing in, just threatening—and feel her legs try to close, her body shiver in fury and need and humiliation.
She hates me.
She fucking hates me.
And I’ve never been more hard in my life.
“You don’t have to love me,” I whisper against her lips, not kissing her. Never kissing. “You don’t even have to like me.”
My mouth touches the shell of her ear again, the words barely a breath.
“You just have to break the way I want.”
Her breath stutters. Her legs are shaking now, trembling with so much restraint that I can see the ache etched into her bones. Her eyes are wild—glass splintering around the edges—and still, she fights it. Still, she holds back like she’s got some power left to cling to.
It makes me want to ruin her slower.
I grip her jaw, tilt her face until her lips part on instinct. Not for a kiss. Not for kindness. Just to see if she’ll breathe when I tell her to. I lean in, mouth at her ear, voice low and thick with the weight of control I know she’s starting to crave more than air.
“You want to cum, little thief?” I murmur, brushing the head of my cock against her—just a ghost of contact, a tease. Her hips twitch, spine arching, mouth falling open with a desperate sound she can’t hide. “You want to be filled like a good girl? Or do you want to keep pretending you hate this?”
Her nails rake against the sheets like she’s trying to claw her way out of her own skin, and I can see it now—the exact second the fight starts to crack.
It’s not obedience. It’s surrender. It’s not a choice.
It’s chemistry, built by pressure and time and fear and lust until her body doesn’t know how to say no anymore, even if her mind still wants to.
I slide in slowly—deep enough to make her gasp, deep enough to burn. And I don’t stop.
Her hands fist the sheets as I drag my cock against her soaking pussy, feeling her grip my cock so fucking tight, I almost lose my goddamn mind.
“That’s it,” I growl against her throat, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “You don’t get to choose this. You were mine the moment you walked into that room. You were mine the moment you looked at me like I couldn’t touch you.”
Her legs lock around me like she doesn’t know if she wants to fight me or drag me deeper.
And I let her. I let her cling. Let her break.
Because this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
The moment she shatters.
And I feel it when she does—her body tightening like a trap snapping shut, her back arching as the moan claws out of her throat, raw and ruined and holy.
“Say it,” I whisper as I slow, grinding deeper into her. “Say thank you.”
She doesn’t speak—can’t. But her body does. Her sob is soaked in it. Her eyes, wide and lost, scream it.
So I give her more.
Because I’m not finished.
Not even close.
She’s trembling beneath me, wrecked in the way that makes her more art than person—cheeks flushed, lashes damp, lips parted like she’s still choking on the sound of my name even though she hasn’t said it once.
Not aloud.
But her body did. Every time it begged.
Every time it bent.
And I haven’t even touched her hair yet.
I sit back on my knees, still inside her, watching the flutter of her lashes like she’s caught somewhere between collapse and confession. I don’t move. Don’t say a word. Just stay there, deep and still, whilst the heat of her walls clenches around me like she hasn’t realised it’s over.
Except it’s not.
Because the real game always begins after they come.
I watch her breathe like I’m studying a painting. One that moves. One that fights back, but never leaves the frame.
“I should drag you back to your knees just for touching me,” I murmur, voice low and silk-threaded with mockery, my hand drifting lazily down her thigh. “But I think I prefer watching you not know what’s next. That’s the fun, isn’t it?”
She twitches when I press my palm flat to her belly—possessive, firm—like I’m claiming everything inside her now too. Because I am.
My thumb strokes a lazy circle just above her bruised hipbone.
Her eyes flick open.
And fuck, that fire’s still there.
Dimmed, yes.
But not dead.
Good. I’d be bored if she broke too easily.
I drag out of her slowly, making sure she feels every inch of retreat, the wet drag between us sinful and satisfying. Then I rise, buttoning my slacks like I didn’t just ruin her. Like I’m not still hard—still fucking obsessed—with every inch of her scent on me.
She rolls to her side, breathing like it hurts.
I grab the tablet from the dresser, flicking through a set of still images.
Security footage.
The hallway.
The kitchen.
The garage.
My voice cuts the silence like a blade.
“You tried the garage door last night.”
She stiffens.
“You’ll find it’s wired directly to the mainframe. The moment you touch it again, I’ll know. And next time… you won’t get a warning.”
I toss the tablet beside her, the screen still flashing the frozen image of her reaching for the doorknob barefoot, wearing only one of my shirts.
And then I lean in again.
Close enough for her to see the shadow in my eyes.
Close enough for her to taste it.
“I’ll leave you to clean yourself up,” I whisper, brushing a knuckle across her jaw with mock affection. “But don’t get any ideas about wiping away what I left in you. That was a gift.”
I pause at the door. Let the silence stretch.
“I’ll be back.”
And I don’t mean tonight.
I mean always.