5. Aria #4
He’s still mostly dressed—just his pants shoved down enough—and I’m completely naked except for my bra, and the contrast makes this feel even more degrading.
He couldn’t even bother to undress properly. This is just about using my body to exorcise his demons.
Maybe that’s exactly what it is.
“You left me,” he says, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. “You took my son. You stole eight years from me.”
“I had to—” The words dissolve into a moan as he changes the angle, hitting deeper.
“No.” His hand moves to my throat. He’s not squeezing, just holding, a reminder that he could hurt me if he wanted. “You chose to. You chose this.”
He fucks me against the bookshelf like he’s trying to break us both and punish me for every year I was gone and every secret I’m still keeping.
Books rain down around us, a cascade of knowledge while we destroy ourselves against the shelves.
I dig my nails into his shoulders through his shirt, hard enough that I feel the fabric tear.
He hisses at the pain but doesn’t slow down.
If anything, he goes harder.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks viciously, his lips on my ear. I shiver. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about while you’ve been playing the victim in my house?”
“Yes.” I cry out, feeling overwhelmed at how he grinds against me. My hips meet his. “Yes, damn you.”
“Good.” He shifts his grip on my hips, pulling me harder onto him with each thrust. “At least you can be honest about this.”
He shifts the angle slightly, and suddenly he’s hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes. I can’t control the sounds I’m making anymore.
They’re desperate, needy whimpers that I should be ashamed of but can’t bring myself to care about.
His hand moves between us, finding where we’re joined, and his thumb presses against my clit.
The dual sensation is too much.
I’m close, so close, and he knows it because he can feel me clenching around him.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice rough and commanding. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hits me like a lightning strike.
I bite down hard on his shoulder to keep from screaming, my body convulsing around him.
He doesn’t stop or slow. Instead, he keeps driving into me through the waves of pleasure that feel almost painful in their intensity.
When I finally come down, gasping for air, he’s still hard inside me and moving with that brutal, punishing rhythm.
He carries me away from the bookshelf—still buried deep inside me—and lays me down on the Persian rug in front of the fire.
The carpet is soft against my back, but he’s not gentle as he pushes my legs up toward my chest, changing the angle again.
“Look at me,” he demands, and I open my eyes that I didn’t realize I’d closed.
His face is above mine, and in the firelight I can see everything—the intensity in those gray eyes, the way his lips are swollen from kissing me.
He looks wild and it should scare me.
Instead it makes heat coil in my belly again.
He starts moving again, harder now, deeper. Each thrust punishes us both.
Each movement is designed to hurt as much as it pleasures.
“This is what you gave up,” he grits out, his voice harsh. “You could have had this. Had everything. But you ran.”
“I had to—” My words dissolve into a gasp as he shifts the angle, hitting that spot inside me that makes thought impossible.
“You chose poverty over this.” His hand wraps around my throat again. “You chose struggle over having everything you needed. You chose to keep my son from me.”
“You’re a—” I can’t finish the sentence.
“A what?” He thrusts harder, and I cry out. “Say it. Tell me what I am.”
I shake my head, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
“Coward,” he hisses. “You can fuck me but you can’t tell me the truth.”
“I hate you.” It’s all I can manage.
“Likewise.” His rhythm becomes brutal, almost violent.
Somehow, I’m close again. My body doesn’t care about the anger or the cruelty. Hell, it doesn’t care about any of it. It just wants him and the release only he can give me.
“You’re mine,” he says against my ear, his voice dark and possessive. “You’ve always been mine. Running and hiding didn’t change that. Eight years didn’t change that.”
“No—”
“Yes.” He bites down on my neck, hard enough to leave another mark. “You can lie to yourself all you want. But your body knows the truth.”
His hand moves between us again, finding my clit, and the combination of sensations pushes me over the edge a second time.
This orgasm is even more intense than the first, tearing through me like a storm, and I can’t stop the sob that escapes my throat.
He fucks me through it, relentless, until I’m shaking and oversensitive and begging him to stop, to keep going—I don’t even know anymore.
His rhythm becomes erratic, and I can tell he’s close. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I know I’ll see the marks tomorrow.
The evidence of this moment.
Proof of what we’ve done.
He comes with a harsh groan, his body going rigid above me.
There’s no sweet words or declarations like before.
This is just pure physical release and the satisfaction of claiming what he thinks is his.
We lie there for a long moment afterward, tangled together on the floor of the library, breathing hard.
Finally, he pulls out and rolls away from me, sitting up and running his hands through his disheveled hair.
The firelight catches on the scratches I’ve left on his neck and the marks that everyone will see tomorrow.