Page 30 of Hunting Gianna
She’s perfect.
I climb onto the bed, straddling her legs. The chain on her wrist gives her about eighteen inches of play—enough for most things, but not enough to hurt me unless I let her. I pull her up to her knees and push her face down onto the mattress again, ripping off her clothes with the movement. Her ass is bare, skin marbled with dirt and goosebumps. I rake my nails across it, drawing a line from hip to hip. She shivers.
I spit into my hand and slick my cock, then line it up with her cunt. There really wasn’t any need. She’s wet. Not just wet—soaked, dripping, a hot, sweet mess even after all the hell I’ve put her through.
I laugh, long and low. “Look at you. Ready for me even now. You may hate me, Gianna, but you want me too.”
She tries to shake her head, to deny it, but I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. She cries out, the sound muffled by the sheets.
I fuck her slow, savoring the way her body clenches around me, the way her thighs tremble with every thrust. I grab her chain and use it as a handle, pulling her back onto me, over and over, until she’s gasping, sobbing, but still trying to buck me off.
“You like this,” I say, bending low to bite the curve of her shoulder. “You fucking love it. You love being ruined.”
She shakes her head again, but it’s a lie. I see the way she arches, the way she grinds her ass against me, desperate for more even as she chokes on the shame of it.
I reach around and slide my fingers between her legs, rubbing her clit in slow, tight circles. She whimpers, tries to twist away, but her hips betray her, tilting up to meet my hand.
“Tell me,” I say, pressing down hard. “Tell me you love it.”
She gags on the words, her voice thick with tears and spit. “I—no—”
I slap her ass, hard enough to leave a handprint. “Louder.”
“I—fuck—” Her voice breaks. “I love it. I love it. Please—”
I lose myself in the rhythm, the slap of skin, the music of her surrender. I keep fucking her until she screams, until her whole body locks up and she comes, wild and broken, around my cock.
I don’t stop. I want her to feel it forever. I want her to carry me inside her until the end of time.
When I finally come, I pull out and shoot all over her back, marking her, painting her skin with the truth of who she belongs to.
She collapses onto the bed, sobbing, the chain rattling with every shudder.
I watch her for a long time, savoring the silence, the utter completeness of the moment.
When I finally move, I kneel at her side, stroke the sweat-soaked hair from her cheek. She doesn’t recoil, but I hold her there, gentle, careful, as if she’s something fragile.
She hates me for it. Hates that I can be both monster and caretaker, abuser and savior.
I love her for it.
I bend low, kiss her eyelids, her temple, the line of her jaw. She shakes, but doesn’t pull away.
I whisper, “You’re perfect like this. Helpless. Owned. Mine.”
She says nothing, but her body tells the truth. The bed dips as I get off and go get the washcloth, taking due care around the cuts and scrapes and bruises. She needs a long shower, but not now. Rest is what I’m ordering and as soon as she’s asleep, I’ll undo the cuff. For now, a cloth will have to do.
Gianna sighs as I go back and rewarm it, going over her body a second time. I hate that I want to take care of her like this, but I love it, too. She watches me through slitted eyelids, a small smile playing over her lips.
“I don’t understand you.” She whispers.
“What don’t you understand?”
“How you can slit a mans throat, chase me through the woods, fuck me like a madman, and care for me the way you are.” She looks at me. Really looks at me.
“I don’t either. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’d kill a thousand men if it meant you’d look at me the way you are now, for the rest of my life.”
She whimpers, but doesn’t break eye contact.
