Page 26 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I barely get a breath in before he grabs me by the waist and slams his palm against the desk behind me, caging me in. I shove him back instinctively, fists curled—but he barely budges.

"Get away from me," I growl.

"Make me," he breathes back, voice gravel.

Then his mouth crashes into mine.

His lips devour mine like he’s trying to erase the rage between us, but it only feeds the fire. My fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer, my body burning from every point where we touch. I hate this. Hate how much I want him. Hate how my body betrays me with every pulse of need.

His hands tear at my clothes with desperate precision—yanking my sweater over my head, pushing my sweatpants down. I claw at his belt, yanking it free, nails dragging down his abdomen as I push his pants down just enough.

When he lifts me onto the desk, it’s not tenderness—it’s possession. His fingers bruise into my hips, mouth grazing my lips, my neck, biting just enough to sting.

"This isn’t love!" my mind screams. "This is rage. This is chaos. This is everything I promised I’d never let happen."

But my body wants it. Wants him. Craves him like a drug I never asked for.

His hand slides down between my thighs, finding how soaked I already am. He smirks against my collarbone. "You hate me, but your body says otherwise."

"Shut up," I snap, breathless.

He presses harder, fingers teasing, slipping inside me. I moan, furious with myself. Furious with him. I dig my nails into his shoulders, pulling him tighter.

His mouth finds mine again—rougher, deeper—and his other hand slides behind my neck, keeping me close. The heat between us is searing, unbearable, and in one swift, brutal motion, he thrusts inside me. My scream rips through the office, echoing against the cold walls, sharp and raw. The force of him slamming into me knocks the breath from my lungs—it’s not pain, but shock, intensity, a surge of something animalistic that tears through my spine and leaves me trembling. My nails dig into his shoulders, scraping down his back as he moves, relentless, his grip bruising, his body claiming mine with every fierce thrust.

He’s relentless. Ruthless. Every thrust is an accusation, every grip a challenge. I brace my hands on the desk behind me, knuckles white, legs locked around his waist as he drives into me, faster, harder.

A part of me hates how much I want this—how much I want him. The part of me that swore I’d never lose control, never surrender to anyone, least of all him. But another part, darker and far more dangerous, thrills in it. In this chaos. In this fire.

I arch my back, head thrown back as he fucks me like he owns me—and maybe he does. In this moment, maybe he always has.

"Say it," he growls into my ear, slamming into me. "Say you want me."

"Never," I gasp, even as my hips meet every thrust.

His hand wraps around my throat again—firm, commanding, sparking a primal and volatile force deep inside me. It’s not just the touch—it’s the power behind it, the promise of dominance that pulses beneath his fingers. My breath hitches, not from fear, but from the surge of adrenaline rushing through me. His grip isn’t tight enough to hurt, but it’s enough to remind me exactly who holds control in this moment—and how much I hate that I want it.

"You’re mine, Calla," he breathes, and the way he says it—low, possessive, primal—makes my entire body shudder.

Lazaro reaches between us and strokes my clit, sending another sharp burst of pleasure through my body.

"Tell me how much you need to come," he rasps, scraping his teeth against my neck and sucking hard. "How much you need me to make you come."

"No." My refusal sounds weak to my own ears.

He thrusts into me again, maddeningly slow, each motion passionate, calculated to push me closer to the edge without letting me fall. My body betrays me—I whimper, low and desperate, unable to hold back the sounds as he teases me, dragging me to the brink again and again until I’m shaking with frustration, teetering between bliss and torment. My hands clutch the sharp edges of the desk behind me, my legs tangled around his waist, trembling with every brutal thrust.

"Please," I choke out the word.

"Please what?"

"Please... I want to come." The words fade into a moan as Lazaro increases his speed.

Within seconds, his thrusts slowly, knowingly, teasing the edge of release I’ve been clinging to.

"What was that?" he murmurs, voice thick with mockery.

I let out a broken whimper, the ache building into an unbearable desire, my hips instinctively rolling in search of friction.

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