Page 69 of American Prince (New Camelot Trilogy 2)
But never do I come close to saying my safe word. I know he’d stop if I said it, I know it the way I know the sky is blue and the sun will rise, and I don’t want him to stop. I want to be able to absorb this from him, take whatever it is off his shoulders for however short a time. And I want him to relieve my mind of these lonely, nervous thoughts that have been plaguing me since the honeymoon.
The crop stills and is tossed on the floor next to my face.
“I want you to run,” he says, and I realize he’s out of breath, that he’s beaten me so hard and fast that it’s actually exerted him.
I crane my head to look up at him, dazed from pain and endorphins. “Run?”
“I didn’t tell you to look at me.”
I drop my gaze, and he continues. “You’re going to run and I’m going to catch you. You’re going to fight me and I’m going to win. And then I’m going to mount you. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, my heart thumping against my chest. This is so messed up. So why am I fighting back a smile?
“Go.”
I go. I bolt to my feet and dart out of the closet, and he gives me a moment’s head start, and then I hear him pounding after me. The bare feet make sense now—it’s hard to run in dress shoes.
I push out of the bedroom and through the sitting room, running into the Yellow Oval Room. He’s right behind me, his legs longer, his steps surer, and I skid into the hallway and fling myself into the next room, hoping against hope it leads somewhere else, but I realize too late it’s the Lincoln Bedroom and I’m trapped.
I spin to face him as he lunges for me, and then we’re both tumbling down to the floor, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. But I fight, pushing his hands away and trying to roll. He stops me with a knee and then a cruel hand in my hair, and then his other knee is wedged in between my thighs, driving them apart. The brutality of that knee and the weave of the antique carpet beneath my bare ass is enough to remind my
body of the furious cropping I just endured. His hand leaves my hair to palm my cunt, and I can hear and smell it. Wet. Needy.
His eyes flare in the dark.
I’m flipped onto my stomach, and my wrists are gathered and pinned above my head. I can’t tell if I’m still squirming to keep up the pretense of fighting or if I’m squirming to feel the carpet rough against my nipples, to grind my glowing red ass against Ash’s erection.
Whatever the reason, it earns me a smack on the ass so hard I cry out, and then the blunt head of him is shoving into me. He feels huge like this, bigger than I’ve ever felt, and when I dare a peek behind me, his body is sleekly powerful in the moonlight, all muscles and sweat. A nocturnal predator.
I’m being devoured by him, his cock eating me up from the inside out, burning the fear right out of me and sowing pleasure amidst the flames, and have I ever been able to breathe? I’ve forgotten what breathing is, what existing is, what everything other than being fucked like a rebellious slut on the floor of the Lincoln Bedroom feels like.
I’m going to come, it’s like barbed wire in my pelvis, dragged up from the pain in my ass and the adrenaline from the fight, but Ash beats me to it. He pulls out and tosses me onto my back once again, and then he’s straddling me with his knees on either side of my shoulders and fucking his fist with short, angry breaths.
“Your body belongs to me,” he says fiercely, the muscles in his shoulder and arm thick and bunching as he works himself at a furious pace. “And your gold hair and your face and your heart. Say it. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” I say, mesmerized by his power, his anger, his cock. “All of me belongs to you.”
He lets out a hissing breath and then it comes, long white stripes across my face, spattering into my hair, lacing my eyelashes and dripping into my mouth. So much of it, so much pent-up lust, and when he’s drained himself of every last drop, he stands up.
For an eerie moment, him standing over me and me on my back covered in his orgasm, I have the strangest fear that he’s going to leave me here. Walk away, make me pick myself up off the ground and limp into the bedroom by myself.
But his anger isn’t spent, not completely. He leans down, and then I’m being hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried into our bedroom and unceremoniously dumped on the bed. He tosses a handkerchief at me.
“Wipe your face and spread your legs.”
“I—” But before I can get anything else out, he’s up on the bed and his mouth is on my pussy, hot and open.
My back bows off the comforter, the sensation after coming so close to climax and being denied almost too much. The orgasm rushes back at full force, and Ash shows no mercy or patience with his mouth, sucking and flicking and tonguing me with all the anger he used while fucking me.
“Come, goddammit,” he hisses. “And you know what to say when you do.”
I come, hard and twistingly long, my feet rubbing against the blanket and my hands fisting uselessly at the pillows above me, and my heart in my throat. I come so hard that everything fades away except the heat of my husband’s mouth.
“Thank you, Sir,” I pant, as the climax begins to recede and I can breathe again. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
He peers up at me from between my legs, his eyelashes long enough to cast shadows in the lamplight, and for a moment, his face is wide open, heartbreakingly open. And then he’s on top of me, kissing my mouth, claiming it like he claimed everything else tonight.
I taste my pussy in his kiss, and I kiss him back even harder, licking his tongue and his lips, which makes him groan. “You belong to me,” he says into my mouth. “You’re mine. My wife. My own.”
