Forbidden Rose

August night

August arrived with even greater heat than July. The air was so thick it felt like it could be cut with a knife. By day, the sun scorched mercilessly, turning the garden into a sizzling pan, and the nights brought no relief—only heavy, humid stuffiness that made sheets cling to skin and sleep shallow, filled with erotic visions.

Arina could think of nothing but Daniel. After weeks of torturous games, where he brought her to the edge again and again but never crossed the line, her body had become one raw nerve. She woke soaked with desire, spent the day throbbing between her thighs, and fell asleep with his name on her lips. He knew it. Saw it. And reveled in his power.

But that power was starting to crack at the seams. Arina saw it in the little things: how he clenched his fists when she passed by; how his gaze turned almost black when she bent a little deeper than necessary; how he lingered in doorways, watching her as if battling himself.

In mid-August, the heat reached its peak. Temperatures didn't drop below thirty even at night. In the mansion, all the air conditioners ran at full blast, but in Arina's annex, it was like a sauna. She slept naked, window wide open, yet still woke drenched in sweat.

On one such night—August 15—she couldn't take it anymore. She lay on the bed, legs spread, hand between her thighs, but even m**********n didn't help. She imagined him inside her, but her fingers were too slim, too gentle. She needed him—rough, big, merciless.

She got up. Threw on a thin robe—the silky one he'd secretly left in her wardrobe a week ago—and slipped barefoot out of the annex. The main house was dark, only a light in his bedroom on the second floor. She knew the way—she'd imagined it in her fantasies countless times.

She climbed the back stairs. Her heart pounded so hard she thought he'd hear it. His bedroom door was ajar. She entered without knocking.

Daniel stood by the window—in just trousers, back to her. Torso bare, muscles glistening with sweat. He turned—slowly, like a predator sensing prey.

"Arina," he said low. His voice was hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't answer with words. She simply untied the robe's belt. The fabric slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stood before him completely naked—breasts heavy with desire, n*****s hardened, everything between her thighs wet and glistening in the moonlight.

His eyes darkened to black. His jaw clenched. He took a step forward.

"You came to beg?" he asked, dangerously quiet.

"Yes," she breathed. "Please... I can't take it anymore."

That was all he needed.

He grabbed her waist—sharply, firmly—and pinned her against the wall by the door. His body slammed into hers: hard, hot, dominating. His lips crashed onto hers—roughly, without preamble. His tongue invaded instantly, claiming, punishing her for making him wait. He bit her lips, sucked her tongue, f****d her mouth as if it were the only thing that could sate his hunger.

Arina moaned into his lips, nails digging into his shoulders—hard, leaving marks. Her legs wrapped around his hips on instinct, pressing her core against his erection.

He growled—a true animal growl. One hand gripped her ass—fingers digging into flesh, lifting her higher. The other tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck. His lips slid lower—biting, sucking, leaving red marks.

"You're mine," he growled against her skin. "From the first day. And now I'll prove it."

He carried her to the bed—huge, king-sized, with dark linens. Threw her onto the mattress—not gently, but not brutally. Fell on top, pinning her with his weight. His hips forced her legs wide; he settled between them—his erection grinding directly against her soaked center through his trousers.

"Feel it?" he whispered, thrusting his hips—hard, rhythmic. "Feel how hard I am for you?"

Arina gasped, arching. Her hands tore at his hair, clawed his back.

He ripped off his trousers in one motion—no time for buttons. His c**k sprang free—huge, thick, head glistening. Arina licked her lips instinctively.

He noticed. Smirked predatorily.

"Want to taste it?"

She nodded.

He rose to his knees—over her face. Took himself in hand, traced the head along her lips.

"Open your mouth."

She did. He entered—slowly at first, letting her adjust. Then deeper. She choked but didn't pull back—sucked greedily, tongue tracing veins, lips along his length. He groaned—low, rough, hand in her hair guiding the rhythm.

"Good girl," he growled. "Take it deeper."

She did—down her throat, tears pricking her eyes, but the pleasure was insane.

He pulled out suddenly—didn't want to come like that.

Flipped her onto her stomach—raised her to her knees. Hand between her legs—fingers found her c**t, circling.

"You're dripping," he said hoarsely. "Ready for me?"

"Yes... please..."

He thrust in one push—halfway. She was tight, virginally so (it was her first time, but she didn't say—she didn't want weakness). Pain shot through her, mingling with pleasure.

He froze. "You're... a virgin?"

She nodded, face buried in the pillow.

He cursed softly—from a mix of tenderness and desire. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wanted you. Now."

He kissed her back—gently, in contrast to everything else. Then moved slowly—deeper, stretching her, letting her adjust.

"Relax, baby. Take all of me."

He buried himself to the hilt. Filled her completely. Arina cried out—from pain and fullness.

He started moving—slow at first, then faster. Hard. Deep. Each thrust to the root, balls slapping her skin.

One hand gripped her hip, the other her c**t. He f****d her mercilessly, as he'd promised for months.

"You're mine," he repeated with every thrust. "Only mine. No one else will ever be inside you. Ever."

Arina came first—hard, screaming into the pillow. Walls clenched around him, milking.

He didn't stop. Flipped her onto her back—legs over his shoulders. Thrust in again—from a new angle, even deeper.

Eyes locked.

"Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see you come on my cock."

She came again—staring into his eyes, watching him lose control.

He came last—deep inside, roaring her name. Hot spurts filled her, overflowed.

They collapsed beside each other—wet, trembling, breathing heavily.

He pulled her back against him—tight, possessively. His c**k still inside—didn't want to leave.

"Now you're truly mine," he whispered into her neck. "Forever."

Arina smiled into the darkness. "I was yours from the first coffee."

They made love three more times that night.

The second—slowly, face to face. He taught her body: how to move, how to take him deeper, how to clench inside until he groaned.

The third—hard, against the wall. He lifted her, legs around his waist, f****d her standing until she came, clawing his back bloody.

The fourth—at dawn, tenderly. He licked between her legs—long, expertly, until she came in his mouth twice. Then entered slowly, kissing the whole way.

By morning, she was covered in his marks: bites on her neck, breasts, thighs; bruises from fingers on her ass and waist; c*m inside and on her skin.

And she had never been happier.

But as the sun rose, he said quietly:

"This is just the beginning. But no one can know. Not yet."

She nodded. She understood: his world wouldn't accept her.

But in that moment, she didn't care.

She was his.

Completely.