Page 10 of Hostile Bond
“André!” He shudders as if he’s trying to dislodge the devil from his shoulder. “Stop… stop!”
Every inch of his tattooed nakedness shimmers in sweat. He arches over me, his thrusting hips punishing in their velocity. The intensity he barges into me with exhibits the signs of a conflict within his mind. I try to cuff his wrists in vain, the power of his madness too acute for restraints.
As much as this deific man detonates trillions of firecrackers over my skin and sets fire to my inhibitions, this crazed mindset he’s fallen into doesn’t belong in our relationship.
Before he snapped, I had wanted to lick him, to taste his saltiness and feel the charge of his domination ruling my senses. But now he’s grunting like a maniac. A possessive beast who would beg to be put out of its misery if he wasn’t so far removed from sanity.
He’s not making love to me––he’s losing control.
His animalistic snarls aren’t sexy––they’re hair-raising.
My pulse trips into an alarming tempo. “Stop… wait a second…”
His punishing pace doesn’t slow, his dark eyes black and bottomless.
I scramble and scratch to get his attention. “André… I love you… please… slow down.”
Every harsh touch and forceful thrust pushes his limits beyond sanity. And for a breathless stutter of time, I wonder if I should let him continue. To permit the purge of his grief, so all of his damaged pieces could fix themselves inside of me. Even if he destroys us in the process.
I’m a strong woman who thinks she’s fully capable of loving a monster, except the ferocious man hunched over me has a wild, lost gaze. Horrified instincts tell me he’s searching for our bond, but can’t find it in his withered heart—and wants to kill me for erasing it.
He’s all over me, his body crushing me one minute, his teeth sinking into my breasts the next. With every savage rut, he reaches further inside of me, obliterating any trace of excitement.
I fight with him even though my body is primed to receive all he has to offer. I’m habitually wet for him, even now. Always a willing victim for his disciplined violence, but not this agitated storm where passion contorts into suffering.
Wrangling with his possessive hands is a waste of time and slowing his aggressive pace is impossible. Although he’s not actually punishing me beyond the realms of sexual stimulation, I’m afraid his deranged tendencies would escalate to something indefensible, and I’d never find him again. That maybe he can’t be saved.
He’s so much bigger than me in every way. More powerful in his presence and physically stronger. It’s not fair that I’m scared of what he might do to me if his mind snaps. And that I’d struggle to forgive him for it.
“She’s mine…” He repeats, his voice gritty and strained, quickly followed by a grunt when he rams in harder.
Mentally, we’re oceans away from each other, separated by the mania he’s fallen victim to, whatever internal skirmish he’s trying to conquer. Nevertheless, I won’t wilt like a flower snipped from its stem or lie back and be brutalized, even if I love him.
“Stag!” I snarl when he pulls out and then shoves himself back in, as if I’m a willing sacrifice laid out at the altar and he’s obeying a tyrannical master.
Finally getting the opportunity to free a hand, I fist his bare chest and hiss at him, “Look at me, André… stag… fucking stag!”
His grueling temperament doesn’t falter. My shoulders lift off the desk and my palm sails through the air, striking his blood-stained cheek with a fierce slap. His spine snaps straight, his eyes wide and filled with confusion.
André pants the same tempo as his demonic pounding. Yet, in the moment of awakening, he spears me with an apologetic look drenched in adoration. My stomach knots.
I love this man.
Am I redeemable as a human for craving him, or have I fallen so hard for the devil that I no longer care?
“He’s wrong… I’m not losing myself…” His Spanish accent curls around the odd statement, sadness bitten by madness. “I’m finding myself… in you.”
“Who?”
“Papá…” he snarls at the mere mention of his late father, a wave of wretchedness and danger passing over his expression. “I am not like him, Sin. I’m not. He was a hundred shades darker than cruel.”
He drops his forehead to mine, his breathing erratic and his forceful thrusts gradually reducing to a more seductive speed. The disorientated flux of his gaze ripples as if the raw proclamation plopped into an inkwell, so the messy splashes would record the truth forever.
“Don’t hate me for this, Sin…” The texture of his gravelly voice kindles raw emotion. “Your body gives me chills.” His wet lips cling to mine. “I need this. I needyou.”
His haunting request cuts straight through my heart in one clean swipe. This is the crippling crux of our unique situation––I’ve never really hated him. Not even when he’d almost choked me with his dick on Frankie’s yacht or when he had dragged me back to his bachelor pad as an unwilling wife. I forgave him and let him take up residency in my heart.
Even as a little girl, I loved him for the escape he had offered me. One day I’d tied a ribbon to the branch of a lonely Irish fairy tree in the middle of a field and wished for a way out––the next week he appeared on his cool motorcycle and dropped his confident ass down next to me under the same tree.
