You belong to me pt 2
971 Words
His name was a ragged tear in the fabric of the air, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. It was lost, swallowed by the groan of the floorboards and the crackle of the hearth as he drove into her.
He filled her. Completely. Utterly. A stretching, burning fullness that was pain and pleasure fused into one indivisible point of sensation. Her back arched, a silent scream trapped in her throat. Her nails, which had been scrabbling against the fur rug, found purchase on the hard muscle of his back, digging into the skin stretched taut over his shoulder blades.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body a cage of heat and strength around hers. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath hot and ragged against her mouth. The grey of his eyes was almost black, the storm within them raging, and she was at its very center.
“Look at me,” he repeated, his voice a guttural command that vibrated through their joined bodies.
Her eyes, wide and unfocused, struggled to obey. She saw the triumph there, the raw, primal possession. But she also saw the strain, the desperate edge of his own need. He was not unaffected. The master was as bound as the servant.
Yes. The thought was a flicker of power in the depths of her submission. You feel it, too.
He began to move.
It was a slow, deliberate withdrawal, an excruciating ache of loss that made her hips jerk to follow him. Then a powerful, rolling thrust that seated him deep inside her once more, hitting a place that made her vision swim. A low, broken moan was punched from her lungs.
He set a relentless, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was a claim, a branding from the inside out. The world dissolved into the slap of skin on skin, their harsh, mingled breaths, and the roaring of her own blood in her ears. The mark on her wrist was a live coal, its pulsing throb synchronizing with the pounding of his hips, a dual rhythm of pleasure-pain that short-circuited all coherent thought.
There was only feeling. The scrape of his rough-spun tunic against her sensitive n*****s. The delicious, heavy pressure of his body pinning her to the furs. The way his muscles bunched and flexed under her clutching hands with every driving movement. The scent of him—sweat, leather, smoke, and something uniquely, dangerously male—filling her senses until it was all she could breathe.
He shifted his angle, and the next thrust struck a different chord, a sharp, bright note of pure, undiluted ecstasy. A cry shattered from her lips.
A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He did it again. And again. Hitting that perfect, devastating spot with unerring accuracy until she was sobbing, her body clenching around him, teetering on the precipice of a shattering climax.
“That’s it,” he growled into her ear, his voice thick and strained. “Let go. Come for me. Come on my c**k, where you belong.”
His words, so crude, so dominant, were the final key. The coil of tension in her belly, wound so impossibly tight, snapped.
But as the first wave of her release began to crest, a different, fiercer emotion surged through the pleasure. It was the ghost of her defiance, the ember of the self she’d been before the mark, before him. It was the memory of running, of fear, of the cold stone on her knees. It was the furious, blinding need to leave her own mark on him.
Her eyes snapped open, meeting his predatory gaze. With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she wrenched one hand from his back, her fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled his head down, and as he drove into her one more time, she lunged upward.
Her teeth sank into the hard curve of his shoulder.
It was not a love bite. It was pure, feral instinct. The taste of salt and skin flooded her mouth. She bit down until she felt the resistant give of flesh, the metallic tang of blood blooming on her tongue.
He roared.
It wasn’t a sound of pain. It was a deep, visceral growl of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His entire body went rigid above her, and then his hips slammed into hers with a final, brutal thrust that pressed her deep into the furs. The mark on her wrist exploded in a conflagration of sensation, a white-hot fire that raced up her arm and fused with the detonating pleasure between her legs. Her climax was a silent, searing implosion, her body seizing around his as he poured himself into her, his own release a hot, claiming flood inside her.
For a long moment, there was only the echo of their cries and the heavy, panting silence that followed. The only movement was the frantic hammering of their hearts against each other’s chests.
Slowly, she released his shoulder. A bead of blood welled from the perfect half-moon of her teeth, a dark jewel against his skin. She stared at it, her breath catching, a sudden fear chilling the aftermath of her passion. What have I done?
He shifted above her. His hand, which had been gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, came up. He didn’t strike her. He didn’t yell. His thumb, surprisingly gentle, brushed over her lower lip, smearing the drop of blood there.
He looked down at the mark he now bore, then back at her face. The storm in his eyes had subsided, replaced by a dark, smoldering intensity that was somehow more terrifying.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
“Finally,” he breathed, his voice a rough caress. “A mark of your own.”
- Writer
