23. The Conflict #2
It's not gentle. It's not tender. It's the kind of sex that comes from months of frustration, months of watching, months of wanting something I couldn't have.
I push her back on the bed. The mattress groans beneath her. I tear at her clothes—buttons scatter across the floor, silk rips like paper. I don't ask permission. I don't wait for her to say yes.
She doesn't say no.
She pulls me closer. Her nails rake down my back, leaving fiery trails that sting and burn. She says my name like it's the only word she remembers, like I'm the only thing that exists.
I bite her shoulder. Hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste floods my mouth and I growl against her skin. She gasps, but she doesn't pull away. She arches into me, her fingers twisting in my hair, holding me there.
"You're mine," I growl against her throat. "You've always been mine. You were mine first."
"Gabriel—"
"Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Say it again. Louder."
"I'm yours, Gabriel."
"Whose pussy is this?" I demand, my hand sliding between her thighs, finding her soaked and ready. "Tell me."
"Yours. It's yours."
"That's right. This cunt belongs to me. Every inch of you belongs to me." I push two fingers inside her roughly, and she cries out, her hips bucking. "You hear that? You feel how wet you are for me? You've been waiting for this. Waiting for me to take what's mine."
"Yes—God, yes—"
I move inside her. One brutal thrust that makes her scream. I'm rough—rougher than I've ever been—and I can feel her body responding, tightening around me, pulling me deeper.
"Look at you," I snarl, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. Because you were. You were fucking made for me."
She claws at my shoulders, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. "Harder," she breathes. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"Beg for it."
"Please, Gabriel—"
"Beg me to fuck you harder."
"Please fuck me harder. Please. I need it. I need you."
"You need me?" I slam into her, and she keens, her back bowing off the mattress. "Say it again. Tell me how much you need my cock."
"So much. I need it so much. I've needed it for so long—"
"You think I didn't notice?" I fuck her deeper, faster, each thrust punching a gasp from her lungs. "You think I didn't see you watching me? Those little looks? Those little touches? You think I didn't know you were walking around soaked, thinking about me?"
"I was—I was—"
"You were mine. You've always been mine. Not his. Mine."
I feel something wet against my hand. I look down. There's blood on her shoulder—from my bite, a perfect ring of teeth marks—and more blood on her lip—from when I kissed her too hard, or maybe she bit it herself. The sight makes me harder. Makes me feral.
I should stop. I should be gentle. I should be the man she needs me to be.
But I'm not that man anymore.
I grab her hair, yanking her head back, exposing her throat. I lick the blood from her shoulder, then bite down again, harder this time, marking her. Claiming her.
"Everyone's going to see these marks," I growl. "Everyone's going to know who you belong to."
"Good," she pants. "Let them."
"You want that? You want everyone to know I fucked you like this? That I ruined you for anyone else?"
"Yes. Yes. I want it."
"Then take it. Take all of it."
I fuck her harder. I make her scream. I make her forget her own name.
I pound into her with everything I have, every ounce of frustration and jealousy and desperate love that's been building for weeks.
I tell her things I've never said out loud—filthy things, possessive things, things that would make anyone else blush.
But not her. She drinks it in. She begs for more.
I fist her hair and yank, and she moans like it's the best thing she's ever felt.
I wrap my hand around her throat—gentle at first, then tighter. Her eyes roll back, and she grinds against me, her body trembling.
"More."
"You like that? You like my hand around your throat?"
"Yes—don't stop—"
"You want me to fuck you like I hate you?"
"Please—"
"I don't hate you." I tighten my grip just enough to make her gasp. "I love you. That's why I'm going to destroy you."
I bite her lip hard enough to draw blood and taste it. She whimpers. Then I push three fingers into her mouth.
"Suck," I demand. "Get them wet."
She obeys instantly, swirling her tongue, taking them as deep as she can.
When I pull them out, a string of saliva connects us.
Then I shove them into her ass. She screams her whole body convulsing around me.
I keep my fingers there, stretching her, fucking her from both ends.
She's so tight, so impossibly tight, and I'm splitting her open, and she's begging for more.
"Gabriel—Gabriel—Gabriel—"
"Say my name again. Scream it."
"GAbrIEL—"
"That's it. Let everyone hear. Let him hear. Let him know that you're mine, and he'll never touch you like me."
I grab her hips and flip her over, slamming her face-down into the mattress. I pull her hips up, arching her back, and drive into her from behind. The angle is brutal, punishing, and she screams into the pillows, her fingers clawing at the sheets.
"You like being fucked like this?" I growl, slapping her ass hard enough to leave a handprint. "You like being treated like a whore?"
"YES—"
"You're my whore. Say it."
"I'm your whore. I'm your fucking whore."
"That's right." I spank her again, the sound cracking through the room, and she moans, pushing back against me. "You're my whore, my slut, my everything. And I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk. Until you can't think. Until the only word you remember is my name."
I fuck her like an animal. There's no rhythm anymore, just raw, brutal need. I'm not even a man anymore—I'm something else, something primal, something that only knows how to take and claim and mark.
I reach around and find her clit, rubbing hard circles while I pound into her.
"Come for me," I demand. "Come on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel."
"Gabriel—I'm—"
"Say it. Tell me."
"I'm going to come—"
"Then come. Come for me, baby. Let go."
When she comes, she says my name. Gabriel. Gabriel. Gabriel. Her whole body shakes, her inner walls clenching around me like a fist. I watch her fall apart, watch the pleasure wrack her body, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
And when I follow, I bury my face in her neck and I hold her like she's the only thing keeping me alive. I spill inside her, pulse after pulse, until I'm empty. Until there's nothing left.
We lie together afterward.
Her head is on my chest. My arms are wrapped around her. The room is dark, the only light coming from the moon through the window. I can see the marks on her body—the bite on her shoulder, the bruises on her hips, the red handprint on her ass. Evidence of what I've done.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She doesn't respond.
"I'm sorry for being rough. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for—"
"Don't." She lifts her head. She looks at me with those steady brown eyes. "Don't apologize. I needed that."
"You needed me to hurt you?"
"I needed you to be honest." She touches my face. Her fingers are cold against my skin. "For a year, you've been holding back. You've been gentle. You've been patient. You've been everything I thought I wanted."
"And?"
"And I realized tonight that I don't want gentle. I don't want patient. I want someone who's willing to fight for me."
"I am willing to fight for you."
"Then fight." She kisses me—soft, quick, a promise. "Don't let him win."
I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead. "I won't."
She settles back against my chest, her body fitting perfectly against mine. I feel her breathing slow, feel her relax into sleep.
But I don't sleep.
I lie there, holding her, thinking about what comes next. Thinking about the fight ahead. Thinking about him.
He thinks he can take her from me. He thinks he can win. He doesn't understand what I am. He doesn't understand what I'll do.
I'll burn the whole world down before I let her go.
I hold her tighter.
"I won't," I say. "I won't let him win."