Page 132 of I'm sorry, Princess
His hips move with more urgency now, and I feel him pulse. His low moan vibrates through his chest as he pulls back just enough to look down at me. “Eyes on me,” he commands, and I obey without thinking, without blinking. My throat tightens and I almost forget how to breathe as warmth floods over my tongue. His fingers stroke my face gently as I take it, all of it, until he stills and exhales like I just saved his life.
“Fuck, Serena.”
Before I can even blink, he lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing, like I’m something precious, something his. He sets me down on the cold marble of the kitchen table, and the contrast of the surface with my feverish skin makes me shiver. I watch him, his tall frame, muscles taut beneath skin marked by tattoos and half-healed bruises. His shirt is gone, his pants abandoned somewhere on the floor, and he looks like sin carved into a man.
And Gosh, I missed him.
Three days without him and it felt like withdrawal. Now, having him here, raw and real in front of me, the ache inside me is unbearable.
He takes his time. He always does. His fingers trail down my jaw, collecting the mess from before, and he doesn’t waste a drop. He watches me as he traces that same wetness down, lower, until his fingers slide between my thighs. I gasp when he touches me, not because it's unexpected, but because it's everything I need.
My back arches off the table instinctively, and I whimper when his fingers slide inside, slow, skilled, deliberate. My body reacts before I can think, clenching around him, begging without words. And still, he takes his time.
His thumb circles lazily over my clit, and I claw at his shoulders, my breath catching with every flick of his fingers. I try to move against him, to find release, but he holds me still, controls the pace, the pressure. His other hand braces my hip, firm, not letting me get ahead. Not letting me come.
He leans in, lips at my ear, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.
“Am I still your friend?” he growls, pushing his fingers deeper, curling them just right, and I nearly cry out from the tension building inside me.
Freaking hell.
I forgot how cruel he can be. How good.
My mouth parts, but no words come. I moan instead, desperate, high-pitched, helpless. He smirks like he knows he’s broken me. And just when I’m about to come undone, when I’m seconds from falling over the edge, he pulls away.
I cry out, frustrated, shaking.
And he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, slow, shameless, deliberate, denying me the orgasm again.
“Please,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper, raw with need.
I’m sprawled across the kitchen table, flushed, trembling, legs parted like an offering. My body’s aching for him. My lips are kiss-swollen, cheeks damp from tears I didn’t even realize had fallen. My makeup is smeared, my hair tangled in a way that only he could cause. I’m a mess, and I’ve never felt more desperate for one person.
His hand brushes the inside of my thigh and I jolt, nearly gasping.
“You’re quite needy for my cock,” he says darkly, a slow, wicked smirk curling at his mouth. His voice is rougher now, all gravel and command, and it makes the ache between my legs pulse harder. “Begging like a desperate little slut,” he growls, eyes glittering with amusement, “and still calling me your friend?”
I whimper, thighs trembling as I try to pull him closer with a leg hooked around his waist. He’s hard, impossibly so, and he presses his length right at my entrance but doesn’t push in. Just holds it there, letting the heat build.
The tension is maddening.
He grabs my neck, not tight, not rough, but with enough pressure to remind me who’s in control. My breath catches. My body stills. His mouth hovers over mine, lips barely grazing as he speaks low and slow.
“Say it,” he whispers, voice velvet and command in one. “Say what I am to you.”
I can’t speak. I can only nod, barely, already melting at the feel of him against me, teasing but not yet giving.
“My princess,” he murmurs, brushing the head of his cock down my slick center, not yet entering. “So perfect for the world. Hair in place. Skirt ironed. Your voice polite. Your smile sweet.” He thrusts forward just a little and I cry out, toes curling from the sensation. “But here you are,” he continues, pushing in further, slow and deliberate. “All tangled. Legs wide open. My cum on your skin. Begging me to fuck you senseless like the whore you are.”
And when he finally enters, deep, claiming, I lose any grip on reality.
My head falls back. I can’t hold in the moan. My nails dig into his shoulders as his hips start to move, slow at first, building with each thrust. His rhythm is merciless. Deep. Demanding. Every thrust sends a shockwave through me, pressure curling in my core, tight and hot and consuming.
“Is that what you are?” he growls, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling my gaze to meet his. “My whore?”
“Yes,” I breathe, voice breaking with need. “Yes, please, I can’t take it anymore—”
He slows, and I nearly scream from the denial. But then he shifts, deeper, harder, hitting that perfect place that unravels me.
