The harsh directive vibrates through me, leaving me no choice but to obey. The thought of what might happen if I defy him again fucking terrifies me.
“God, look at you.” His fingers wrap around his length as he begins to stroke himself, his gaze fixated on my every move. “You know how to obey. You know how to make me fucking proud of my baby girl, don’t you?”
I mumble something indistinguishable, barely able to keep my fingers on my clit. They slip off, sending tingling sensations across my sensitive flesh, and I feel the throbbing intensify with each circle I make. My eyes are half-mast as I watch him working himself before me—the sight is so powerful and terrifying that it pushes me closer to the edge.
“Are you going to come, Netia?” he asks breathlessly. “Are you going to come at the sight of me holding complete power over you?”
“Yes—” As the impending orgasm begins to crash over me, my eyes roll back, warmth curling in my lower stomach and traveling upward to wrap itself around my mind. “Yes, yes?—”
“And what makes you think you fucking deserve it?”
Just as I teeter on the edge, he grabs my hand and yanks it away, pulling me back from the brink. I lose my balance, and he grabs my hair, his grip the only thing anchoring me in place. The force of my interrupted orgasm leaves me breathless, and I let out a pathetic cry, squeezing my legs together in frustration.
He laughs—a cruel, sadistic sound that ignites anger inside me, clouding any lingering arousal. “Fucking motherf?—”
Before I can finish, his other hand clamps down on my lips with a sharp slap, muffling the rest of my curse. “Think carefully before unleashing those words,” he warns. “I wouldn’t enjoy hurting you more than I plan to.”
The threat lingers in the air, and I stop struggling against his hold, resigned to whatever his sick plan entails.
“Get on the bed,” he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of my lips like he didn’t just threaten to hurt me. “On your hands and knees.”
The ache from the loss of orgasm courses through my body, rendering me too weak to resist. His gaze traces my every move as I crawl onto the bed, feeling like prey beneath his watchful eye—he takes his time, savoring every second before he makes his move.
“You’re so breathtaking when you obey,” he murmurs, his hands gently gliding across my hips. My eyes flutter shut as his touch moves slowly up and down my body, tracing soft patterns, as if he intends to imprint every detail of me in his memory. “God fucking damn, Venetia. Why does a woman like you have such a poisonous soul?”
Slowly, his hands travel up to my breasts, and he squeezes them tightly, spreading an electrifying sting through me. My nipples harden against the thin fabric of my bra, the friction creating a discomfort that flirts with exquisite pleasure.
When his touch vanishes, stealing warmth and comfort away, I look up and realize I can see him in the mirror before the bed. The same mirror I was just looking into, scolding myself for my actions. And now, I’m almost naked, my face flushed, with his belt tightly wrapped around my throat—a stark symbol of his complete control over me.
West begins by shrugging off his blazer, then moves to the buttons of his bloodied shirt, undoing them one by one to reveal his tanned skin beneath. A rush of anticipation floods through me, and I bite my lower lip, realizing this will be the first time I see him shirtless.
When he finally removes the last button and takes off his shirt, my brain short-circuits, burning away any remnants of rational thought.
Scars. So many scars crisscross his broad shoulders, chest, and abs, each one telling a story of its own. Some are small and faint, while others are long and thick, marking the landscape of his skin. Veins bulge in his hands and shoulders, prominent with every movement he makes.
He’s devastatingly beautiful—a jagged masterpiece forged from something raw and tragic. With a physique reminiscent of a god, yet marred by undeniable damage, he embodies a hauntingly beautiful contradiction.
“My god, West?—”
His hand is back on my mouth, silencing me as he leans in, pressing his body against mine. I can feel the rough texture of his scars, each one a testament to the untold horrors he lived through.
“You’ve upset me, Venetia,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. I try to shake my head, to break free, to apologize, but his grip tightens, holding me in place. “After everything that happened between us, you abandoned me like I was fucking nothing.”
I feel the tip of his cock pressing against my pussy, and my body instinctively tenses as I hunch forward, seeking to escape him. He releases my mouth, sliding off my panties and unclipping my bra, letting it hang loose before reclaiming control with the belt dangling from my neck.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak out, my voice thin and pitiful, like a frail twig snapping under pressure. “I’m sorry, West, I?—”
“You’re not sorry yet, baby girl,” he interrupts, nuzzling his nose into my hair and inhaling deeply. “But you will be.”
My mouth falls open in a silent scream as he pushes inside me. Eyes bulging from the pressure, I grip the sheets, fighting to stay on the damn bed as my inner thighs tremble from the effort.
“Oh, fuck!” I yelp as the burning discomfort spreads rapidly, consuming me like a fast-moving storm.
“You’re doing a good job,” he reassures, his free hand trailing down my stomach until he finds my clit, thumb rubbing circles across it to balance the agony with pleasure. “You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to fuck, but you chose the wrong fucking man for it. Now, you’re going to take what trulybelongsto you.”
Every sense in my body ignites as I feel the stretch he creates. His slow, measured pace on my most sensitive nerve bundle provides a slight reprieve, but it doesn’t erase the pain.
It doesn’t feel natural.
