“Owned.”
“Say who you belong to.”
“You.”
He fucked me harder.
His hips slammed into my ass, his balls slapped against my soaked pussy, and still it wasn’t enough. I clawed at the stone, my nails scraping raw, my insides squeezing him so tight I could feel every inch, every ridge, every groan he bit back.
“This body is mine,” he said. Voice low. Ragged.
“Yes,” I sobbed.
“Say it.”
“It’s yours.”
“Louder.”
“It’s yours.”
He bit my neck. My shoulder. The curve of my back.
He marked me with teeth and scripture and ruin.
And when I came, it was like burning alive. My pussy pulsed around his cock, my scream echoed through the chapel, and I didn’t care who heard.
He followed.
His roar wasn’t human.
It was holy.
He spilled inside me like he was branding me with his cum. Filling me until I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t belonged to him.
He collapsed over me.
Still inside.
Still hard.
Still his.
And I whispered, not because I needed to be heard, but because it was truth:
“I never wanted gentleness. I wanted you.”
He kissed the back of my neck.
And stayed.
The ache didn’t leave.
It lingered like a bruise under my skin, like the echo of his growl in the hollow of my throat. He had filled me so completely I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Because every time he took me, he didn’t just fuck me—he rewrote me.
I lay on my side, sweat cooling on my skin, his cum leaking from between my thighs in a slow, revenant drip. The bruises he left across my hips were already darkening, his bite marks pulsing like sacred sigils carved in flesh. I wore them like scripture.
He sat at the edge of the robe, half-dressed, head bowed. His back rose and fell with measured breath, but I knew he wasn’t calm. I could feel the storm in him, held down by discipline he no longer needed to wear.
