He pulled her to him and lifted her in one motion, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed where he dropped her backwards so she sprawled beneath him. She glared at him, her breath ragged, her breasts heaving with each push of her lungs. But he didn’t give her time to recover. He pulled at her underpants, removing them before dispensing swiftly with his own clothing, bringing his naked body over hers.
When he kissed her, it was a mark of possession that was answered by his body’s hard push into her womanhood. There was no preamble, no foreplay, just this. He thrust into her with all that he was, crying out as her sweet warmth enveloped him, as muscles claimed him, reassured him, and then his mouth dragged down her body, finding a nipple and flicking it with his tongue.
She writhed beneath him and when she whimpered he lifted his eyes to her face, watching as pleasure pulled her apart at the seams. Watching as she fell apart in his arms, feeling her muscles squeeze him, her body take him, feeling her react to him in a way that should have been reassurance enough.
But it wasn’t.
He needed more. He needed her to give him something but he didn’t know what.
While waves of pleasure still rocked her to the core, while she trembled beneath him, and her body was ravaged by the waves of her desire, he pulled out of her and dragged his mouth to her sensitive heat, lashing her with his tongue until she was crying out, loud, shrill, desperate. He was driving her to the brink too soon after she’d already orgasmed, while the after effects were still ravaging her system, but he didn’t care.
She was his, and he would make sure she understood that. He slid a single finger inside her tight warmth and she bucked against his mouth. Her fingers came to his hair, tangling in it, pulling it loose, dragging it from his head and then she came again, so that he felt her pulse, tasted her pleasure, and knew her to be carried away by what they had shared.
But still he wanted more.
He brought his weight down on top of her and thrust into her once more, and felt his own seed begin to spill. He held himself back, though, watching her as he shifted his weight, as his coarse chest brushed against her soft, womanly curves, as she pushed up and claimed his lips with hers. And then her hands were on his chest, pushing him, and something like panic filled Raffa – panic that she was going to end this. That she hadn’t wanted what he did, that he’d been wrong.
And maybe he had, because when she straddled him and took him inside, she glared at him with the force of rage he hadn’t known her capable of. “I hate you for doing this to me,” she said thickly, but she moved her hips with frantic need, pumping him, making him almost incoherent with how good she felt, how right this was.
But he wouldn’t let her control this or him. His fingers dug into her hips and he slowed her down with ease. She was tiny and he was strong. He held her low on his shaft and his eyes bore into hers. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Screw you,” she muttered, trying to move her hips, and he knew she needed to feel more of him, to feel him move. He knew pleasure was once again knocking at her door, and he held the key to opening it.
His smile was tight, his own grip on the situation spiraling way out of control. “I am.”
“Jerk.” She groaned when he pumped himself inside her, just once, just enough to remind her what this was.
“You are mine. Whenever I want you, however I say. You are mine. Tell me. Say it.”
And when she was quiet, he rolled his hips so she felt the gossamer promise of what he would give her if only she’d agree.
“I hate you,” she groaned, trying to move, trying to take him in deeper.
“So you said,” he drawled through half-shut eyes.
He loosened his grip on her hips so she was free to move again, to roll her hips and bring herself, and him, to the very edge of sanity. But before she could explode, he stilled her once more, so that her body was denied what it needed so desperately.
“I’m yours,” she cried out. “Just please don’t stop.”
Raffa swore to himself as he finally gave into what they both wanted, tipping her over the edge at the same time he exploded, so that their bodies were a mesh of pleasure and satisfaction. And as she rode the wave of release, she mumbled, over and over again like a waterfall that wouldn’t stop bubbling, “I hate you for this.”
Raffa woke with a pounding headache the next morning, and a heavy sense of something dark in his gut.
Fractured memories of the night before assailed him slowly at first, and then all at once, like a tsunami hitting land. The way he’d felt seeing Goran talking to her. The way he’d taken his anger at a decades old crime out on Chloe. The way he’d punished her, the way he’d used her sensuality against her.
The way he’d made her beg.
The way she’d told him she hated him.
The way she’d looked at him as though he were the devil incarnate.
Something like a rock settled inside of him.
Guilt. Yes, guilt. He hadn’t felt it before, and so it took him a while to identify it, but as the day progressed, he recognized the emotion and knew he deserved to feel it. It was eating him up from the inside out.
He would swim – swimming always cleared his mind.
Why had he allowed himself to become so invested in possessing her? His wife was a very beautiful means to an end, that
