Page 33 of Hollowed

I rolled onto my side and reached for him. My hand found the edge of his robe, fingers curling into the rough fabric like I could anchor myself there. He looked down at me with that terrible stillness—his control so intact, so brutal, I could feel it pulsing in the air.

“Don’t be gentle,” I whispered.

His mouth didn’t move. But I saw something fracture behind his eyes.

He dropped to his knees beside me.

His hands didn’t tremble. But they were fast. Faster than reverence allowed. He pulled the robe from his shoulders like it burned him. And then he pulled the blanket from my body like I had no right to hide from him.

He flipped me onto my stomach.

My gasp echoed against the stone.

I didn’t resist.

I arched.

Because I wanted it—wanted him—more than I wanted air.

He spread my legs with his knees. One hand at my hip. One pressed into the center of my back.

He didn’t speak.

He bit.

Hard.

His teeth sank into my shoulder and I cried out—loud, raw, ruined.

His cock was thick and hard, pressing against my slit like it had been forged to live there. I was soaked. I could feel it slicking down my thighs. I knew he could smell it.

And he groaned like it hurt.

He pushed into me without warning.

Not slow.

Not soft.

Deep.

All of it.

My body jolted forward. My scream caught in my throat. He held me there, pinned, impaled. His cock stretched me open with a force that made my eyes blur.

He didn’t let me adjust.

He fucked.

Brutal. Precise. Possessive.

His fingers tangled in my hair and yanked my head back. My spine arched. My mouth opened. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

“Say it,” he growled into my ear.

“Yours,” I gasped.

“Say what you are.”

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