I hate that he can restrain me with his hands and hurt me with his words.
I hate that despite it all, my body heats where his erection grows against my stomach.
I’m out of defenses. He took them all. I have nothing left but the dirtiest insult of all. Sucking in a deep breath, I spit in his face.
He flinches. Both of us freeze. There’s a moment of shock in his unmovable demeanor, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, his gaze turning into pure ice.
Fuck. I regretted it the moment I did it, but it’s too late to take it back.
Letting go of my neck, he slowly wipes the back of his hand over his face. The promise of retribution in his expression is unmistakable. I utter a shriek when he grabs my face in his big hand, digging his fingers into my cheeks. Before I can make another sound, he crashes his mouth into mine. The kiss is hard and punishing. He doesn’t spare me, not even when I taste blood on my tongue. He swallows my breaths, kissing me so viciously my jaw aches.
Something inside me gives, and the helpless anger transforms into lust. I channel all the emotional pain into desire. His roughness ignites a fire that burns up my legs and gathers in my core. It should frighten me. It should repulse me. Instead, I moan in agreement when he yanks my arms up and pulls the T-shirt over my head. I reach for the buttons of his shirt, but he swats my hands away, lifting them back up over my head. He pops the button of my jeans, pulls down the zipper, and shoves them over my hips. Grabbing my waist, he spins us around. My feet leave the ground as he flings me through the air. I land with a thump in the middle of the bed. He strips as he advances—shirt, shoes, pants, briefs, and socks. His erection is big, proud, angry.
“Stay,” he growls when I instinctively start to scoot back.
I pause. He grabs my ankles and drags me to the edge of the bed, then yanks off my sneakers and socks. He almost rips the panties as he pulls them off with the jeans. Bending my knees, he positions his cock and drives the head through my folds. I gasp at the sudden invasion. I’m wet, but he’s too big.
He’s impatient. He takes me with a few shallow strokes until my inner muscles relax. I push myself up on my elbows to watch. When my inner muscles turn softer around him, he drives home with a hard thrust. My arms give out. Swallowing a scream, I collapse onto my back.
Leaning over me, he whispers against my swollen lips, “Do you want this?”
Always the same question. Always the same answer.
He teases me with a steady rhythm, making it feel so good I almost lose my reason.
I grab his forearms, digging my nails into his skin. “Wait.”
He stops.
“Condom,” I say breathlessly. I don’t want to repeat our mistake.
“I gave you a birth control shot.”
“You did what?”
He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain. He takes my body like he took my life, without making excuses. The physical possession is more than fucking. It’s a statement, proof that his power over me stretches further than defeating me with strength or words.
When I’m close to coming, he climbs onto the bed and pulls me on top of him. Gripping my ass, he sets the pace, keeping release just out of my reach. Sadistically, he watches the agony on my face as he cups my breasts over the lace of the bra and denies me relief. It’s a lesson, a demonstration of who holds the power.
Sweat covers my body. My skin is slick. I’m raw inside. “Yan.”
He slaps my ass, grabbing a handful of flesh. “Who owns your life?”
I don’t want to say it, don’t want to admit it. Stubbornly, I bite my cheek.
His fingers tighten on my thighs as he increases his assault, bringing me so close I want to cry with frustration. I need just a little more. When I reach for my clit, he grabs my arms and bends them behind my back.
“All you have to do is say it.” He slows his movements to a leisurely roll of his hips.
I grit my teeth so I won’t beg.
“One word, Mina.”
I can’t take it anymore. I break. “You.”
He lets go of my arms to grip my hips. Bracing me, he gives me what I want, what I’ve earned with a word.
He slams up and orders, “Touch yourself.”
I drag circles with my finger around my clit. He watches with concentration, learning what pleases me. When the orgasm hits, I don’t have enough strength left to remain upright. I fall over his chest even as he picks up his rhythm to find his own release. He comes shortly after, his seed bathing my body with more proof of what I’ve become.
Depleted, I lie sprawled out over him.
Beaten.
In his bed, I lost the war I started against the wall.
15
Yan
The woman lying on my chest doesn’t cry, but she wants to. I know what vanquishment looks like. Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her close and give her what I can, whatever I’m capable of. I hate her for what she’s done, but I own her. That gives me a responsibility toward her.
My anger is gone. It burned out with the wild sex, vanished when my cock softened and slipped out of her body with my seed. What’s left in the wake of our fire is a wet spot on the sheets and the cold ashes of reason. With that comes a tinge of regret. Ilya was right. Mina fucked me with her own, justified motivations. I had no right to see more into it.
Whatever the case, she’s here now, and she’s staying.
Rubbing her back, I ask, “What do you need the money for?” Because I said things and I feel guilty. A strange sentiment for me.
It takes
