Chapter 2 #2
"You. Completely unguarded." His large palm kneaded my breast without mercy, the rough calluses bringing such intense sensation that my whole body convulsed uncontrollably. "Tonight, you belong entirely to me. Under my control."
My fingers gripped his black T-shirt fabric desperately.
Under this suffocating, absolutely violent control, I was actually feeling a strange, unprecedented sense of security.
No need to think about tomorrow anymore. No need to deal with those hypocritical faces.
In this dark suite, under this man, I only needed to be a pure believer dominated by desire.
"Come inside." I heard myself make a plea so wanton it sounded foreign even to me, "please."
Viktor's movement stopped abruptly. He hung above me, veins bulging on his forehead, drops of sweat sliding from his blond hair onto my heaving chest, burning hot.
Then, his mouth curved into a cruel and captivating arc.
"Remember, you begged me, Hailey."
He unbuckled his belt with one hand, the metal clasp making a crisp, deadly sound in the night.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild mix of fear and desperate hunger twisting inside me. God, I'd begged for this. Every nerve screamed with taut, trembling anticipation.
He thrust in without warning.
No careful stretching, no gentle preparation. Just raw, brutal possession.
Pain tore through me—sharp and immediate. I cried out, my body instinctively trying to pull away, but his hands locked my hips in place.
"Fuck—" The word ripped from my throat.
It hurt. God, it hurt. But underneath the pain was something else—something that made my entire body tremble. The feeling of being completely taken, completely owned, sent electric shocks through my nervous system.
"Relax," he growled against my ear, voice rough. "Breathe."
But he didn't slow down. Didn't give me time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, deeper this time, forcing my body to accommodate him.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. The stretch was overwhelming, bordering on too much.
Then his mouth was on my face, kissing away those tears with surprising gentleness, even as his hips maintained their punishing rhythm.
"You're hurting me too," he said, and there was something dark and satisfied in his voice. "So fucking tight. Squeezing me like you don't want to let go."
Those words—that admission that I was affecting him too—they flipped a switch inside me.
The psychological pleasure crashed over the physical pain like a wave. Suddenly the hurt transformed into something else entirely. Something addictive.
I moaned, long and shameless, my hips moving to meet his thrusts now instead of pulling away.
"That's it," he praised, voice thick with approval. "Take it. Take all of me."
He pounded into me harder, each thrust driving me up the bed. The headboard slammed against the wall rhythmically. My hands clawed at his back, probably leaving marks.
But it still wasn't enough.
"Harder," I heard myself beg. "Please, I need—"
I needed to break through something. Some invisible barrier I'd been living behind my whole life. I needed him to shatter it completely.
"Harder?" He pulled back to look at me, those ice-blue eyes blazing. "You want more?"
"Yes, God, yes—"
He withdrew completely, making me whimper at the loss. But before I could protest, he flipped me onto my stomach with frightening ease.
"You want to be ruined?" His voice was rough, dangerous. "I'll ruin you."
I heard the sharp click of the metal buckle on his belt, followed by a rustling sound.
"Your arms."
My heart hammered. I should've been scared. Instead, I obeyed immediately.
He bound my wrists together with his tie, tight enough that I couldn't break free. Then he looped his belt around my bound wrists and the headboard, securing me in place.
I was completely at his mercy now. Couldn't move, couldn't protect myself, couldn't do anything but take whatever he gave me.
The vulnerability should've terrified me. Instead, it made me wetter.
"Beautiful," he murmured, running his hands down my spine. "Completely helpless."
He thrust back in without warning.
The new angle drove him impossibly deep. I screamed into the pillow, my body jerking against the restraints.
He fucked me ruthlessly. Each thrust punched the air from my lungs. The belt around my wrists bit into skin. My shoulders ached from the position. It was too much, too intense, bordering on unbearable.
"Please." I didn't even know what I was begging for anymore. "I can't—"
"You can." His hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head back. "You will."
He drove into me harder, deeper, until I was sobbing with sensation. Pleasure and pain blurred together into something transcendent.
"I can't. It's too much. Please—"
But my body betrayed my words, clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
"Liar," he growled. "Your body's begging for more."
He was right. God help me, he was right.
Time lost meaning. There was only his body driving into mine, over and over, the slap of skin on skin, my hoarse cries, his rough breathing.
Then he pulled out again, undid the belt that tied my hands to the headboard, and flipped me once more. This time, he sat back against the headboard and lifted me onto his lap.
"Ride me."
But with my wrists still bound by his tie, I had no balance, no control. I could only sit there impaled on him, completely dependent on him to keep me from falling.
He held my hips, lifting me up and slamming me down on his cock. The position drove him even deeper than before—so deep I could feel him everywhere, feel him consuming me from the inside out.
I was helpless. A vine clinging to a tree in a storm, wrapped around him desperately, drawing sustenance from every brutal thrust, every violent surge of pleasure he forced through my body.
"Tell me who you belong to," he commanded, his grip on my hips bruising.
"You." The word came out broken. "Master, I belong to you."
His control snapped. He drove up into me savagely, using my bound state to control my every movement. I could only take it, could only sob and shake and surrender completely.
When I finally shattered, it felt like dying. Like every atom of my being scattered and reformed around him. I screamed—or tried to—but no sound came out, just silent, gasping cries as pleasure annihilated every thought.
He followed moments later, his grip on my hips tightening as he buried himself as deep as physically possible, marking me from the inside.
We stayed like that for a long moment—me collapsed against his chest, still impaled on him, wrists still bound. His heart hammered against my cheek.
My body had always been more honest than my mind. And this time, I stopped fighting it.
This wasn't some reckless mistake.
It was a choice I made with a clear mind.
And I had no idea how I would face myself when I woke up the next morning, knowing I had finally lost control.
Harsh sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I forced my eyes open with difficulty.
My brain felt empty. My body felt like it had been hit by a truck. I tried to move—every muscle protested. Especially between my legs. Raw and burning.
Memory fragments flooded back—alcohol, truth or dare, that room number, ice-blue eyes, and an entire night of insanity.
Fuck.
I sat up abruptly, immediately regretted the movement. Pain from everywhere made me gasp. I looked down at myself. The sheet slid away, exposing my body covered in marks.
Kiss marks, bite marks, bruises—from my neck to my chest to my inner thighs, nothing was untouched. Those purple-blue marks were like some kind of territorial claim, reminding me that last night hadn't been a dream.
I turned my head to look beside me.
He was still asleep.
Sunlight fell across his face, softening those sharp features slightly. Blond hair scattered messily across his forehead. Those sharp ice-blue eyes hidden behind eyelids now, long lashes casting shadows.
He looked almost harmless. If you ignored those powerful muscle lines, ignored the tattoos covering his body, ignored the dangerous aura emanating from his entire being.
My heart raced.
This was wrong. All of this was wrong.
I'd slept with a stranger. All night. Did things—things I never imagined I would do.
Worse, my body was still aching as a reminder of how much I'd enjoyed every bit of it.
Rationality finally returned, bringing overwhelming shame with it.
I had to leave. Now. Immediately.
I carefully lifted the covers. My naked body exposed to the air. My clothes—that black bodycon dress—torn to shreds, scattered on the floor. I had to search the room naked and on tiptoe for something wearable.
Finally I found his shirt, tossed carelessly on a chair, still carrying his body heat and cologne.
I quickly pulled it on. The shirt was way too big on me, the hem almost covering mid-thigh. But better than nothing.
My underwear was nowhere to be found—probably tossed into some corner during one of those frenzied moments. I gave up searching, grabbed my purse, and prepared to flee this room.
But before opening the door, I stopped.