Chapter Seventeen #2
But as my tongue met hers, a tremor ran through me, a whisper of doubt from the man I once was, Jackson Williams. He recoiled from the sheer violence of it, from the primal urge that threatened to consume every last vestige of control.
This wasn’t just passion; it was a surrender to the darkness, to become the monster, the predator that lived in my blood.
This is wrong, a phantom voice warned. She deserves tenderness, not this savage claiming.
Yet, the scent of her, the desperate fire in her eyes, drowned out any nascent guilt.
I was no longer just Jackson Williams, nor the predator Ravage.
I was both intertwined and inseparable, a man forged in the fires of Hell and bound to her by a love that defied all logic.
But which ‘I’ was truly in control? The warring factions within me clawed at each other.
The protective Jackson yearned to shield her, to speak words of comfort and devotion.
The beast inside me, the Ravage I knew I could be, craved dominance, the satisfaction of absolute possession.
The conflict waged a silent war behind my eyes, a battlefield of desire and self-loathing.
Ripping her shirt from her body, I exposed her soft, pert breasts encased in a simple white bra. Her creamy, milky skin glistened like melted white chocolate. As I tore her bra from her body, I watched as she threw her head back and moaned.
Hungrily, I lifted her, needing to suckle her breast as my dick railed against the zipper of my jeans.
With her legs wrapped around my waist, I slammed her against the wall.
The sound of her cry, a mixture of pleasure and pain, echoed in the narrow space.
I sucked a nipple into my mouth, biting it hard as she cried out, her nails yanking and pulling at my hair.
“More!” she urged. “I need more, Jackson.”
Her moans intensified, a melodic symphony that ignited a fire in my veins.
I deepened the kiss, my tongue exploring the sweet, forbidden depths of her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her desire and the raw, intoxicating essence of her fear.
My hands roamed her body, tracing the delicate lines of her scars, each touch a reverence, a prayer.
The thought of her pain, of what she’d endured, had been my prison, but now, in the heat of our shared need, it became a fuel, a catalyst for a passion that had been simmering for far too long.
With a deep groan, I pulled away, my eyes locking on hers, a silent question hanging in the charged air. Her breath hitched, her blue eyes wide, not with fear, but with a raw, untamed hunger that mirrored my own.
“You want more?” I growled, my voice a low rasp that vibrated with all-consuming need. “You’ve got it, baby.”
A slow smile spread across her lips, a dangerous, intoxicating curve that promised a shared descent into oblivion. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears and a burgeoning wildness. “I’m yours.”
And with that, the last pretense of my restraint dissolved, swallowed by the inferno that had been building between us for too long.
The world outside, the looming war, all the betrayals faded into an insignificant hum as we plunged into the heart of our own storm, a tempest of shared pain and forbidden desire.
Spinning her around, a knot of conflicting impulses tightened in my gut.
Part of me craved this raw, uninhibited release, the sheer power of it.
But another, smaller voice, one I usually managed to silence, recoiled.
It whispered of consent, of gentleness, of a connection beyond mere physical dominance.
Yet, the urgency, the burning need, drowned it out.
I shoved her against the wall, the rough plaster a stark contrast to the softness I desired.
My hands, acting with a will of their own, yanked down her pants, then ripped her panties from her body, exposing her soft, creamy ass.
A groan escaped me, a sound that was equal parts pleasure and a strange, unsettling self-disgust. I watched her arch her back, giving me a better view of her creamy core.
The sight, meant to inflame, instead sparked a flicker of doubt.
Was this what I truly wanted, or what I felt compelled to take?
Quickly undoing my jeans, my fingers fumbled slightly, betraying a nervousness I wouldn’t acknowledge.
I reached for my cock, jacking it hard as she stepped out of her jeans, spreading her legs wide enough for me to see her glistening pussy. She was offering herself, a vulnerable, open invitation that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
Stepping up behind her, I grabbed her neck once more, the feel of her skin against my palm sending a jolt through me, a complex mixture of ownership and fear. Then I leaned close and whispered, “Tell me to stop, baby.”
“No.” Her voice was a low rumble, a surrender that should have been purely gratifying, but instead, it felt like a confirmation of a choice I was making against my better judgment.
“Tell me to be gentle.” My words felt foreign to my tongue, a betrayal of the raw edge I was cultivating. This was the choice I didn’t want to make—to push away the possibility of something softer, more genuine.
“I don’t want gentle.” Another surrender, another nail in the coffin of my self-control.
Lining up my cock, I whispered, “Tell me you’re mine.” My question hung in the air, a desperate plea for absolution, a way to justify the increasingly primal act.
“Yours. Forever.”
Her declaration, meant to seal the moment, instead felt like a condemnation.
I had forced her into this, and now she was bound to it, and so was I.
In the next instant, my grip on her throat tightened, a physical manifestation of the internal struggle, as I slammed my dick deep into her hot cunt.
A roar tore from my throat, a guttural sound that was undeniably satisfying, but beneath the wave of physical release, a cold, hard regret began to form, a promise of a future I would have to live with.
My desire became a roaring inferno, consuming all reason.
I wasn’t gentle with her. How could I be?
My conscience, a whisper in the storm, screamed warnings of restraint, of tenderness, of her vulnerability.
But my raw, desperate need, the beast I’d caged for too long, had finally broken free.
Greedily, I took what she willingly offered, my body a vessel of desperate need, ramming myself into her like a man on the brink of dying of thirst. Each thrust was a brutal war waged within my own soul.
The man I knew I should be recoiled, whispering condemnations of this unrestrained savagery, while the beast I was becoming roared for more, a deafening, exhilarating sound.
This wasn’t mere release; it was a desecration, a betrayal of every principle I’d sworn to uphold.
Yet, even as my conscience screamed, a dark, intoxicating pleasure coursed through me, a terrifying validation of this forbidden act.
With every stolen breath, with every shuddering gasp, I felt another piece of the man I aspired to be wither and die, replaced by the insatiable, unthinking hunger of an animal.
“Harder, Jackson!” she screamed, her voice a raw, primal cry that mirrored the chaos inside me.
My hand tightened around her throat, a cruel testament to the loss of control.
I thrust recklessly into her supple body, a violation I both loathed and craved.
She welcomed the beast I unleashed, not with fear, but with a willing surrender, an acceptance of the savagery I fought so desperately to suppress.
Instead of trying to tame it, she amplified it, begging me to delve deeper, to obliterate the last vestiges of my resolve.
And in that moment, as my cock rammed deeper inside her, I knew I was irrevocably lost. The choice had been made, not by me, but by the darkness that had consumed me.
With no other choice, I let go and welcomed my beast and roared as I slammed my dick into her, taking what she willingly offered as her pussy walls gripped my cock, soaking my dick in her cream as she screamed out her release.
Pumping harder, I thrust in one more time and stilled as my cock splashed her womb with my cum.
Gasping for air, I released her throat and leaned close to her as my dick still pulsed within her, the beast she’d unleashed finally sated.
“Are you okay?” I gasped, trying to find the right words when I heard her chuckle.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
I smirked, then slowly stepped back and watched as my dick slipped from her wet cunt, our mixed juices dripping down the inside of her legs.
Sitting on the bed, I said, “Come here, baby. Let me see you.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face before she masked it.
“I’m fine, Jackson,” she said, her voice a tightrope walk between obedience and something else entirely, something I couldn’t quite decipher.
She did as I asked, her movement lacking the usual surrender.
Standing between my legs, I raised my hand, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
A part of me screamed at the thought of it, a memory of a different kind of touch, a gentler plea, but another, darker, more insistent voice pushed it down.
I moved her head to the side, my palm finding its mark.
The sharp intake of her breath was a knife twist in my gut. I saw the angry bloom of my handprint on her neck, stark against her skin, and a wave of revulsion washed over me.
Releasing her, I looked down in shame. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“Don’t do that,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through my self-recrimination.
She lifted my head, forcing me to look into her beautiful eyes—eyes that held a fierce, unwavering conviction that both awed and terrified me.
“I wanted it. Asked for it. You did nothing wrong. You gave me a part of myself back today. A part I thought I would never have again.”
Her words were a balm, but they felt like a betrayal of my own internal struggle. I wanted to believe her, to shed this heavy cloak of guilt, but the image of the bruise, the visceral knowledge of the force I’d exerted, gnawed at me.
“I hurt you. Your neck is bruised.” My words were an accusation, aimed not just at her, but at the darker impulses within me I fought daily.
“So what?” she scoffed, her eyes blazing, a challenge I wasn’t sure I could meet without acknowledging the truth of my own actions. “You think I care? I don’t.”
But in the slight tremor of her voice, in the way she averted her gaze for just a fraction of a second, I saw the lie. And in that moment, faced with her strength, her manufactured acceptance, I felt a profound and crushing loneliness.
I had done what she asked, what a part of me craved, but the cost felt immeasurable. I had brought her pain, even if she claimed to welcome it, and in doing so, I had pushed a boundary within myself that I had sworn never to cross again.
The victory, if it could even be called that, tasted of ashes and regret, and the silence that followed was a deafening testament to the man I was becoming, the man I was terrified of being.