American Prince
I give one of her breasts a vicious slap, and it seems to stun her, which is what I want. Her squirming stops, and then I’m using her hips to flip her onto her stomach.
She knows what I want, and so she wriggles even harder, trying to throw me off of her, but I just laugh low and mean into her ear as I finish my work and rip the dress all the way down to the hem, leaving the ruined silk in a tangle around her taped ankles.
I shove my pants down past my hips, freeing my cock, and then I slide my hand into that white-gold hair and yank her head back. My other hand smacks her ass with a loud crack and then goes searching for her cunt. I find what Melwas never would; a cunt that’s swollen and eager for me, a cunt hot and slick and wet, so wet that the soft outer folds of her are wet too.
“I knew you wanted it,” I taunt, sliding two rough fingers inside her. For a moment, she forgets our game and arches toward me, pushing herself deeper onto my fingers, shivering when I curl them inside her.
I don’t forget our game though. Releasing her hair, I lean over her and pull down her gag, shoving my fingers into her mouth, just far enough to make her uncomfortable. She tries to squirm away, and again I trap her with my thighs clamped on either side of her hips.
“Do you taste that?” I ask, pressing the pads of my fingertips onto her tongue. “That’s the taste of the pussy I’m about to fuck.”
She bites my fingers and glares back at me as much as she can from her position on her stomach. Laughing, I pull my fingers from her mouth.
“Fuck you,” she spits out.
I smack her ass again—hard—and she cries out. “I’m glad you’re getting the idea, sweetheart.” I run both of my hands along the generous curves of her ass, palming and gripping and pushing the cheeks apart to see the sweet heaven inside. She’s wet enough now that I can smell her, that smell so particular to women, and I let out a low growl.
I tilt her hips up with a quick, jerking motion, brace one hand by her head, and fist my cock, guiding it to the wet entrance between her legs.
“Please don’t,” she pleads. I glance at her hands, where her fingers are curled into fists under her chin; no sign of snapping fingers. “Please. My husband will pay anything, anything you want.”
Her husband.
A vicious spike of jealousy pierces my chest as I pierce her, real jealousy, real anger, creeping its way into the make believe. My wide crown pushes past her folds, tunneling forcefully deeper, and just like the first time we had sex, I give into the savage urge to thrust and penetrate, to stab and spear. To claim.
She doesn’t cry out, she seems to have lost her breath, her mouth parted and her eyes closed, and the goose bumps are back, along with the shivers.
“Your husband isn’t here,” I whisper harshly as I press in as deep as I can go. It’s a snug fit. Her ankles are still taped, keeping her thighs together, and fuck, it makes her tight, every clamping inch a new kind of heaven I’ve never felt before. But this doesn’t soothe the monster, smooth away the real jealousy. Not even close.
Because I’ll never be her husband. I’ll never have what he has, I’ll never get to hear that word from Greer’s lips and know with certainty she means me.
“He’s not here,” I repeat, driving my hips into her ass, punishing her, punishing myself. “But you’re going to take me anyway. You’re going to feel every inch of me inside you. You are going to know that you belong to me.”
12
Greer
after
I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe, how to speak. Above me, Embry moves in the dark like a beast, and I have flashes of memory from our first—and only—night together, of his mindless rutting, his blind need, but I find my mind can’t drift far from the present. There’s only the here and the now, there’s only Embry’s merciless thrusts, the thundering of my heart, the delicious tightening deep in my core. I imagine I can feel him there, the tip of his cock buried so deep that he’s in the bottom of my belly, and every jagged, sawing thrust from the monster above me sends thrills of fearful pleasure through my body.
I’m sweating, that’s how hard he’s using me, and every nerve is alive, alive, alive, and singing.
His lean form folds down even lower over mine, and he bites my shoulder as he drives into me, like a lion with a lioness. The sheer wonderful savagery of it sends me spinning further out into—well, into I don’t know where. It’s like the place Ash sends me with ropes and belts, but Embry is not fucking me like Ash would, even if we’re both pretending that’s what’s happening. Ash is calculated with his cruelty, but Embry is not. Embry is a slave to his own cruel urges, lost to himself in a way Ash could never be.
And so I’m actually scared.
Which is what I want. What I need.
It seems counterintuitive—masochistic even, when I’ve only ever dabbled in masochism, preferring instead the more power-oriented dynamic of submission. But every bruising thrust, every cruel taunt that comes from a man I love instead of my would-be rapist neutralizes the awful reality of what happened. Affirms my consent and power, my ability to give my body to whom I choose. Every zing of pain followed by a thrill of pleasure—it’s all mine, all my choice, my design. And so this bed, the place I would’ve been raped, is now the place where I have my choices given back to me. The confirmation and assurance that I still have power in the kind of sex I crave, that I can still take pleasure in it.
The bite on my shoulder turns into a bite on my neck, a mouth hot against my ear. “Does your husband get to have you like this?” Embry sneers, and I shiver at the anger and jealousy in his voice. I told him to be Melwas, to pretend to be the man who’s deeply and awfully jealous of Ash, but this doesn’t sound like pretended anger. This sounds real. And my body stirs with trembling, fearful delight at it.