Page 63 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
Hotter.
Sharper.
More brutal.
I’m coming before I even realize it’s happening—a desperate, broken thing tearing frommy throat as I clamp down around him, my body milking him, dragging him deeper, higher, into the abyss with me.
We cling to each other, locked together in the wreckage, breathing each other’s air, hearts slamming out a wild, broken rhythm that feels like the only thing left holding me to this earth.
I don’t have time to think.
I don’t have time to breathe.
All I can do is fall over and over again.
He’s relentless, a force of nature, fucking me back into the floor with savage, desperate thrusts, like he needs me to anchor him to something real.
Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll tear himself apart.
I lose track of time.
Lose track of everything except the burn and stretch of him inside me, the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the way he murmurs rough, filthy words against my ear as he takes me again and again.
Between fits of sleep—shallow, broken, gasping—he wakes me with his hands on my body, his mouth between my thighs, his cock pushing deep inside me from behind.
Each time rougher.
Each time more.
At some point, he flips me over, shoving me to my knees on the thick rug.
My thighs tremble, barely able to hold me up, but his hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back, forcing me to arch for him.
The tip of his cock brushes my lips, and instinct takes over?—
I open for him.
Dominic groans, filthy and raw, and slides between my lips, filling my mouth the way he fills my body—relentless, claiming, unyielding.
He fucks my mouth with slow, grinding thrusts, his hand tangled viciously in my hair, controlling my every move.
Tears blur my vision, heat flooding my face, but I don’t pull away. I don’t want to.
When he pulls free, I’m wrecked—shaking, panting, strings of spit clinging between my lips and his cock.
He catches me before I collapse, pulling me down with him in front of the fire.
Dominic wraps himself around me like a shield, dragging the quilt from the couch over our bodies. The fire crackles low, bathing us in molten gold and deep shadow.
His arms tighten around me, crushing me against the broad wall of his chest, one heavy hand cupping the back of my skull, holding me exactly where he wants me.
I feel the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. Feel the raw tremor still running through him. Hear the low, broken sounds he makes—not words, just shuddering breaths like he’s still trying to hold the last pieces of himself together.
His hand slides down my back, rough and trembling, tracing the bruises he’s left on my hips, my ass, my thighs.
His voice is a rasp in the dark when he finally speaks, so low I almost miss it.
“You’re mine now.”
