Page 167 of I'm sorry, Princess
And then he thrusts inside me, one hard, relentless stroke, filling me to the hilt.
My cry echoes through the room, a mix of pain and pleasure. And somone help me, I already know, he owns me again.
He thrusts into me, slow, deep, unrelenting. Each stroke drags against that sweet spot, over and over, until I’m trembling, my toes curling tight in the sheets. The air leaves my lungs in broken gasps.
“Open for me, princess,” he orders, his voice dark and gravelly. My body obeys before my mind can catch up, my lips part, my mouth yielding to him.
And then he spits inside.
The shock of it makes me shudder, heat flooding my body. The gesture is filthy. Degrading. A violation. But freaking hell, my pussy clenches so hard around him I almost sob. Shame mixes with desire, twisting into something I can’t fight, can’t resist.
“Fuck,” he hisses, eyes narrowing, his thrusts harder now, sharper. “Stop strangling my cock, or this will be over in two minutes.” His hand grips my hip bruisingly, holding me in place as he drives into me again, slow, deep, and merciless.
My eyes roll back, the pleasure overwhelming, obscene. Every push feels like punishment and worship all at once. Every drag of him inside me carves his claim deeper into my soul.
I choke on a moan, my body betraying me, my shame feeding my arousal. I should hate this. Hate him. But I can’t. Because I’m his. Even when it’s filthy. Especially when it’s filthy.
His hand slides up my chest, fingers spreading across my throat. Not squeezing yet, just holding me there, a warning, a claim.
My eyes lock on his, blue fire boring through me.
“Look at you,” he growls. “Made to be fucked. Made to be mine.”
Then his fingers tighten.
Air slips away in an instant. My mouth falls open, but the only sound is a broken gasp. My hands claw at his arms, not to stop him, never to stop him, but to hold on. The pressure around my throat makes my body quake, makes the pleasure coil lower, sharper, unbearable.
He’s watching me drown in it, his eyes wild, obsessive. “Yeah,” he snarls. “That’s it. I can feel it, you’re about to break, aren’t you?”
I try to nod, tears spilling hot down my cheeks, my body thrashing under him. His cock slams into me, harder, deeper, each thrust timed with the pulse of his hand on my throat.
Stars explode behind my eyes. The lack of air, the weight of him, the claim of his cock, it’s too much. My pussy tightens like a vice around him, trembling, convulsing, and then I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me violent and raw, my body spasming under him, my vision white-hot. I sob against his chest as he lets go of my throat, air flooding back in just as the wave crashes over me.
I scream his name.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking me through it, growling in my ear, “You came from my hand on your throat, didn’t you, princess? Say it. Say what gets you off.”
“Yes, fuck, yes!” I sob, still trembling, still pulsing around him.
His jaw locks, his thrusts turn savage, and with a guttural groan he empties himself inside me, his teeth sinking into my neck, marking me as his.
Even when he collapses on top of me, his weight crushing me, his hand lingers at my throat, thumb strokingwhere he’d just cut off my air. His lips drag to my ear, his voice hoarse and low.
“You don’t get it, princess,” he whispers, ragged and hoarse. “I can’t stop. I’ll never stop. You’ll always be mine, even if it kills us both.”
After the orgasm, the weight of reality crashes over me like ice water. My body is still trembling, but my mind is screaming. I came here to tell him to stay away from me, and instead, I ended up in his bed, his hands, his mouth, his body claiming me like I never left.
Shame coils in my chest as I stumble off the bed, desperate to gather my clothes. But my shirt is nothing but a shredded mess on the floor, and all I have left is my skirt and bra. I slip the bra on quickly, refusing to look at him, refusing to acknowledge the ache between my thighs where he’s still inside me, staining me.
I make for the door, barefoot, messy, undone.
Before I can touch the handle, his hand wraps around my wrist, iron, unyielding.
“Cover yourself, princess,” he murmurs, voice dripping with lethal calm. His eyes drag over me, blue fire and danger. “I’m not in the mood to paint these walls with another man’s blood today.”
And the worst part? I believe him. Every deadly word.
