"You hate me that much? More than you want to come?"
"I don’t want?—"
I slammed in halfway and stopped. She gasped.
"Liar. Your cunt's been begging since I walked in. Don’t make me tear the truth out of you."
She bit her lip. Her face was flushed, tears brimming…not from pain. From humiliation. From want.
I leaned down, voice against her mouth. "Just say it. Just give me the truth, and I’ll give you everything."
She tried to twist away. Spat in my face again.
My cock twitched.
I dragged my fingers through it, slow, then sucked them clean with a groan. "God, you even taste like fury."
Then I pulled out again, cruelly slow, until just the head pressed against her, slick and swollen.
"One more chance, baby. Say it. Or I’ll leave you right here, dripping and empty."
She whimpered, shaking her head, still defiant—but her hips told a different story. Desperate, stuttering, trying to chase me. I stayed still. I waited.
Her hands fisted the sheets.
"Say it," I growled.
"I want it," she bit out, voice broken. "I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. Please. I need it."
My control snapped.
I slammed into her, deep and brutal, dragging a ragged cry from her throat. Her back arched. Her nails carved down my arms. Her cunt clenched so hard I saw stars.
She came with a scream—my name ripped from her lips.
A confession.
I didn’t stop until she was limp beneath me, trembling and soaked, wrecked from the inside out. When I finally pulled out, she gasped, thighs still twitching, eyes glassy with what I'd done to her.
I leaned in, brushing my mouth against her ear.
"Good girl. That’s what honesty sounds like."
I kissed her jaw, tucked myself away, still hard, still aching—but fed.
Then I stood, dragging my fingers down her thigh as I moved.
"You’ll beg faster next time."
And I walked out, leaving her soaked, spent, and ruined. Exactly how I wanted her.
11
GRACE
Ididn’t sleep. Not because I couldn’t, but because everything he’d done kept looping behind my eyes like a sickness I couldn’t sweat out. The weight of him. The gravel of his voice when he made me say I wanted it. The things he’d whispered into my skin. Worse—so much worse—the way my body had answered him. Without hesitation. Without shame.
I felt sore. Stretched. Marked. My thighs were sticky. My lips were swollen. Every small shift reminded me how deep he’d gone, how hard he’d taken me, how completely I’d let him. My body pulsed with memory, tender and traitorous. I couldn’t move without reliving it. Without wanting it again in some hideous, spiraling way.
