Page 42 of Princess Claimed

“Last chance,” I tell her, fighting to control myself. I’m beyond close to fucking her, with or without her permission. But even in my rage-red haze, rape is many steps beyond where I’d take this.

“Last chance for what?” she asks, her chin tipping up as she pretends not to understand, as she tries to hide everything her body’s so clearly wanting.

“Last chance to avoid the wrath of this monster.” Tightening my hold on my cock, I swallow a groan. I’m so hard it might crack.

Sucking in a sharp breath, she fights to hide her reaction. “Very well then.” She shrugs. “Do what you must.” Turning, she faces her bedroom door. Gathering the layers of her skirt to her waist, she bends forward.

My vision blurs. The entire room disappears. Even she disappears. All I can see is her sex, deep pink, slick with arousal, and screaming my name.

Take me, Phil. Fuck me. Pound me. Ravage me, her cunt calls out.

I fight to control myself. My cock is thicker than any other I’ve seen, close to an inch wider than Crusher’s. Typically, I use my fingers to stretch a female’s hole before plowing in. But touching her might temper my raging hate. Might make me give a shit about how she feels.

I can’t have that. I need to wreck this woman. I need to drive my hatred inside her. I need to make her regret her taunting words. Make her regret everything she makes me feel. Leaping forward, I land in a wide squat. Then grabbing her hips, I ram inside her.

Her head slams against the door, and she whimpers.

I pause, shocked that her tiny body took so much of me in on the first plow. At least two inches.

But instead of showing mercy, I tug back on her hips, going in a half inch deeper as her tight wetness throbs around me. Fucking amazing.

Leaving one hand on her hip, I move the other to her throat, so I can better control her position and increase the force of my drives, without her head smashing into the door again.

It’s her cunt I want to punish, not her skull.

I’m motionless inside her, but she’s pulsing around me, her softness getting used to my girth. She could even be gleaning some pleasure from the fullness, like I am from her tightness.

Fuck her pleasure. This is not about pleasure. Not for either one of us.

Keeping one hand at her throat, I strap my arm across the front of her hips and then, driving my hips forward, I thrust deeper.

Fuck. I pull back a half inch, and then thrust even deeper.

Her cunt is both tighter and slicker than I expected, her juices like fire and ice all at once, and pleasure radiates through me that’s better than drinking the finest scotch, better than anything else I can remember. If I stay inside her forever, I could never get enough of her tightness, or of her juices penetrating the thin skin of my cock.

I’m blinded now. Overwhelmed by an ecstasy that’s driving me even more mad than my rage. I can’t think. My only options are act and feel. And I feel so fucking much.

Unable to stop myself, I tug back on her tiny body as I drive forward. Over and over, I repeat my actions, relishing each thrust, each one feeling better than the last, her tiny body somehow taking in so much of me.

It’s squeezing around me now, and her little round ass is smashing against my hips with each ram. I can’t begin to stop myself, and I drive into her impossibly hard and deep, pounding her tight cunt more brutally than I’ve drilled any woman—ever.

I’m no longer driven by wanting to hurt her. My only focus is pleasure. My pleasure.

At some point, I rise from my deep squat, lifting her feet off the ground. And the new position drives her small body even further onto my cock. Her hands fall off the wall, as I hold her in front of me, impaled.

She moans, and my hand tightens around her vibrating throat. Her fingers rise to grasp my wrist.

Am I choking her?

I extinguish my brief flash of concern. Let her choke. She’s a vampire. She’ll live.

But instead of trying to remove my hand, she fondles it, caressing my wrist and fingers, stroking my knuckles. Her touch is tender, beyond tender.

Fuck that.

Tightening my hold on her throat and body, I leap across the room, her body still fully impaled.

Landing next to one of the pool tables, I bend her over its padded edge. Her feet are still off the ground, but her hips are supported, so I release the arm I’ve had strapped across her belly. Pulling back on the table, I slam into her, using punishing strokes sure to bruise her insides. Her hands flail across the table’s green velvet surface as if searching for something to grip. More likely to find a weapon to smash into my head.

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