Page 82 of Cinderella Is Faking It

“That’s my girl,” he rasped and yanked my hips back again, my arms crying at being pulled taut, but a different sensation pierced through. Him. He was hot and solid, sliding his tip up and down my fold, thick enough to part me wide without even entering me. “Last question, sweetheart. Who gets to fuck that beautiful tight pussy of yours?” He positioned himself at my entrance, both hands on my core to work me open.

I let out a strangled sound, somewhere between pleasure and protest. “Please,” I whimpered.

I earned myself another slap on the ass for that answer, but that barely broke through all the other beautiful, terrible pain. “Who gets to fuck you, Blondie?”

“Just you,” I whispered, dooming myself.

He pushed himself into me inch by inch, my moans turning to sobs as I was stretched beyond comfort. Yet I arched into him, wanting, needing to be unequivocally his. His hips snapped forward as he buried himself in me, and I dissolved crying his name and jerking around him. The orgasm washed over me and drowned me, filling my lungs and blurring my vision.

My arms fell from the headboard, but there was barely enough strength in them to hold me up. Dazed and aching, tremors still rocking through my body, I tried and failed to help as Beck turned me around and lowered me into the pillows, then sank back into me. I shuddered, stomach tightening. I’d never felt this full. “God,” I gasped, as some light broke through my cloudy thoughts. Each deep thrust drew a strangled noise from me. “Beck.”

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart, taking my cock like that,” he purred and leaned down, lips tracing the curve of my jaw.

Some feeling returned to my arms and hands, and I wanted to hold him, all of him, bring our bodies as close as physically possible. I pushed one hand into his hair grasped at his shoulder with the other.

His dark eyes found mine through the haze. “You’re all mine,” he rasped, lips ghosting over mine, before melting into me with a kiss. Our first kiss. God, our timeline was so messed up, but he was such a good kisser, I didn’t dwell on it. His lips were strong but soft, and his tongue teased mine without haste.

His pace picked up as the kiss deepened. The sharp ache of adjusting to his size ebbed and was replaced by the dull pain of the depth of him as he thrust into me harder, as if each push of his hip laid a claim to my body.

I moaned his name into our kiss as I dropped over the edge of another orgasm, quivering under him. I was still shaking when a deep moan rumbled from his throat. The tension snapped from his body, and he spilled himself in me with one last thrust.

While my body had dissolved beyond repair, Beck was on his feet within a few minutes, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a warm washcloth. I hissed under his touch but every inch he cleaned, he adorned with a soft kiss afterwards. And each kiss was followed by praise, softly whispered against my body, telling me how soft my skin was, how beautiful my breasts, how good I tasted. The words lulled my mind into the same warm bliss the rest of me had already sunken into.

My eyes had fallen shut, a deep exhaustion rooting in my bones, by the time he crawled back into bed with me and pulled me against him. He tucked my body into the curve of his and trailed kisses along my shoulder. A sweet humming melody filled the room, and I chuckled at how cheesy he was. Humming after sex.

“Good song,” I mumbled, tongue heavy.

“Good night,” he whispered back.

THIRTY-TWO

I fucked up.

THIRTY-THREE

I panickedfor a brief moment when Del wasn’t in bed the next morning, tossing the covers back as if her small frame had disappeared into the folds of my sheets.

The clanking crash of pans and pots betrayed her before I got the chance to consider just how much I’d fucked up the day before.

I found her in the kitchen, wrapped in my bathrobe, fishing eggshells from a bowl that looked about as appetizing as cat vomit. Cooking skills aside, she seemed okay. Her eyes seemed bright as ever and a soft warmth tinged her cheeks. The girl I’d broken and stitched back together last night was gone.

“I’m making breakfast.” She beamed as she spotted me walking into the kitchen.

“What are we having?” I asked and stepped around her to peer at the recipe on her phone, my arms coiling around her waist on their own accord. When I’d said she was mine, I’d meant it. I’d claimed her and my body knew instinctively that meant I wanted her near me, pressed against me, wanted as much of her as I could get.

“Frittata,” she replied with a thick fake Italian accent that sounded eerily French.

I eyed the bowl that spotted at least two more shards of eggshell that I could see and the mess on the counter next to her. Points for trying. I grazed my teeth over the back of her neck. “I had a different breakfast in mind,” I whispered and slipped a hand into the bathrobe to cup one of her perfect handfuls of chest, but Del froze under my touch, even her breathing pausing for a few heartbeats. I pulled my hand back as if her skin had burned me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and turned around, her lips quivering under a forced smile. “I’m okay.”

“Are you?” I asked and pulled her hands into the space between us, the bruises around her wrists blooming dark blue against her cream skin. A primal part of me loved seeing them because if I took her to a place like Clandestine, she’d not even need a red fucking ribbon anymore. Those would show everyone that she was all mine. But I was plenty aware of the pain that followed the ecstasy.

“I’ll be okay,” she sighed.

“Tell me where you’re hurt.”

She gasped a gurgled sound between a laugh and a sob, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. Fuuuuck. “No, I’m sorry. I promise I’m fine. I don’t regret a single second from last night.” She hiccupped. “Just not used to it.”

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