Page 147 of The Contract

But I don’t want gentle. I don’t want slow.

I want every brutal, dark piece of him forced into every shattered edge of me.

I try to speak, but my voice fractures, splintering into a desperate, messy plea. “More. Harder. Please.”

It’s the please that snaps his control?—

That, and my teeth sinking possessively into his bare chest. The instinctive, greedy grind of my hips. The whimper of his name. “Dante.”

The world spins, tilts, flips—and suddenly, I’m beneath him, exactly where I belong.

He pulls out, slams in.

Again. And again. And fucking again.

His mouth devours me as he takes me. The deep, punishing thrusts shattering every last thread of my restraint.

I take all of him. And he’s a lot to take. Big and breathtaking, Dante is too much and not enough all at once.

His fingers tighten around my throat, pressure exquisitely perfect. And I open that much more.

My pulse races frantically beneath his grip as he fucks me deeper, harder, faster, claiming every broken, desperate piece of me.

“Come for me, Pom,” he growls roughly against my neck. “Right fucking now, baby.”

And I do.

The orgasm hits with a force so intense, so devastatingly raw and perfect, it hurts.

“Dante!”

I scream his name, shattered and utterly owned.

There’s a part of me that knows I’ll never recover from him—and a sick, desperate part that never wants to.

His pace quickens, thrusts rough and erratic, shoving deep, coming so fucking hard—the way he breaks apart—it’s like the universe explodes. Shifts.

I feel it everywhere.

Slowly, our ragged breathing settles, melting into silence that throbs and pulses around us, broken only by our frantic breaths.

For endless moments, we lie tangled, his body still buried deep, anchored together.

When he finally moves—pulling out so slowly it feels deliberate, he stares.

“What?”

Something unsettlingly soft flickers across his face, a shadow of pain darkened by regret. He frowns. “Stay here.”

He rises abruptly, disappearing into the bathroom.

I glance down, stomach knotting painfully. Creamy white—a lot of it—streaked crimson, dotted with tiny flecks of blood.

A bitter stab of panic knots with doubt.

No condom.

Seconds later Dante returns, towel in hand.

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