Page 66 of Bound By Obsession

Finally, Wyatt relents, pulling the dildo out of me in one smooth motion. As soon as I feel the loss of it, it’s thrusted back inside, repeatedly pounded into my pussy like he’s possessed by desire. Or perhaps by the need to dominate me. Either way, I’m here for it.

I cry out, my back arching off the bed as pleasure rips through me, fast and hard, like a tidal wave bursting free. My hands grip the sheets and my mind goes blank, consumed by the colors sparking behind my eyelids, lost to the sensation of Wyatt letting loose on me. We’ve wanted this for so long. I feel him watching me with dark, burning eyes.

His movements become more forceful, more deliberate. Each thrust sends me spiraling deeper into the abyss, my body responding without thought, arching into him, desperate for more. The friction inside me builds, heat pooling low in my belly, coiling tighter with every stroke of the toy. And that’s all before he finds the button that triggers the vibrations that suddenly ripple through me.

“Fuuuuck,” I groan, pushing back into the mattress. It feels so, so good. More than that, it’s freaking phenomenal, the release of him finally pleasuring me even if it’s not with his own hands, face or cock. He’s no less affected, his breath coming in sharp, controlled pants, betraying how difficult he’s finding it holding himself back. I see it in the way his jaw clenches, the tension in his broad shoulders, the barely restrained need to unleash everything he’s kept bottled up for so long. But still, he maintains that maddening control, refusing to give in fully.

“More, Wyatt,” I moan, my voice thick with desperation. “Harder.”

His lips quirk into a dark smile, but he doesn’t speed up. Instead, he leans closer, his mouth just inches from my ear as he growls, “I’m not one of your puppets, Avery. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His free hand moves to my throat, fingers wrapping around it without fully applying pressure, just enough to remind me of what I asked for, what I wanted. My pulse jumps beneath his grip, the thrill of it sending a fresh wave of heat through me as I bite back a gasp.

There’s something intoxicating about Wyatt holding me like this, the power dynamic balancing on a feather. It’s his authority pressing down on me, exposing me in the best possible way. I yearn for it, to feel small beneath the crushing weight of him. The bully of my nightmares has become the embodiment of my darkest fantasy.

“Is this what you wanted?” Wyatt’s voice is low, dangerous. His other hand pumps the pink dildo in and out of me with ruthless precision, the silicone slick with my arousal. I try to keep my composure, but my mind has already dissolved into a haze of need.

“Yes,” I nod frantically, barely able to form coherent words. “Please... I’m so close...”

“Then beg for it,” he commands, his grip tightening slightly around my throat, pushing me to the edge of control. Wyatt’s fingers tighten just enough to make my pulse race faster, the pressure at my throat both thrilling and terrifying. His grip reminds me of the control I stole from him in the ballerina dressing room. Well, he’s taking it back tenfold now. My body trembles beneath him, utterly at his mercy. “Beg for it,” he repeats, his voice darker, more insistent.

“P-please,” I choke out, my voice barely more than a whimper. I don’t even recognize myself, the strong-willed woman I pride myself on being has officially packed her bags and moved out of my mental space. The toy inside of me slows and I instantly come back to my senses. “Please, Wyatt, I need it.”

He lets out a low, satisfied growl, picking up the pace once more. Wyatt’s hair is erratic, wild brown flicks shifting in time with the muscles pumping in his arm, veins coursing beneath his forearm and neck. The hold on my throat loosens to brush his thumb lightly over my lips. His touch is electric. All I can do is surrender and let myself be swept away by him.

Then, when I think I can’t take anymore, he leans down, his breath hot against my ear, and murmurs, “You don’t know this, but you’ve always belonged to me.” The possessiveness is enough to send me spiraling into oblivion.

A surge of pleasure explodes through me, every muscle locking up as I come undone beneath him. My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, raw and uncontrollable. I cry out, arching off the bed, pushing myself into the thrusts that tear through me. Wyatt doesn’t stop. His movements lack any trace of pity, the rhythm of the dildo matching the rapid beating of my heart. His hand at my collar bone tightens ever so slightly, keeping me grounded in the storm of pleasure ripping through my body. My legs shake, toes curling into the sheets as the release pulses through me, leaving me breathless, gasping for air.

My body finally relaxes, limp and spent but not completely satisfied. Wyatt withdraws the dildo, pausing briefly until he wins the war with himself. Ducking his head, he runs his tongue along the pink surface, tasting the white smeared mess I created. I instantly grow weak, lost in the intimacy of it all. Reaching for Wyatt’s sweatpants, he swiftly perks up and jerks back out of my reach.

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head, one brow raised as ifI’mthe one being ridiculous here. His sweatpants are tented, despite him moving off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. I lie there, stunned, confused, empty. However, I don’t have the good sense to move or close my legs when Wyatt returns with a cleaned dildo that he places on the dresser.

“Why can’t I have you?” I frown, quickly sinking into myself.

“You know why.” Except I really, really don’t.

Wyatt refuses to meet my gaze, his jaw ticking profusely. He fumbles around to find my discarded towel, promptly covering me with it and finding a spot on the wall he’d rather stare at. “Let’s not pretend you weren’t imagining someone else with you just then. It will never be me.”

I open my mouth and then quickly shut it again. Why should I tell him he’s wrong? Why should I stroke his ego? My thoughts are private, they’re dark and depraved and have no business being voiced because Wyatt is pretending he’s not worth my time. He’s digging this grave and despite the pull of my body, the urgency with which I want his cock buried in me, I won’t lie in it with him.

Running a hand down his face, Wyatt groans at himself. Tugging his phone out of his pocket, he quickly taps the screen and holds it up to his ear.

“Avery needs you.” He ends the call and walks out without a second glance. Without stalling long enough to close the door. Tears prick the back of my eyes as I roll onto my side, a new side effect of whatever I took settling in. Dull hollowness sweeps through my bones, an aching void ripping into my chest. By the time the door is gently pushed open, I’m sobbing, shivering and still utterly naked beneath my towel.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Dax rushes over to me, stripping out of his clothes as he goes. In his boxers, he eases me beneath the covers and cradles me so gently, I cry harder.

“This is going to seem really weird,” I mutter whilst weeping against his chest. “But you need to make love to me.” Pulling me back a few inches, Dax’s face is impassive, a slow smile creeping across his face. He kisses each one of my eyes, coming away with wet, salty lips and then cuddles me closer.

“I will, Little Swan. Let me hold you for a while first and once you’re out of tears, I’m all yours.”

Interlinking my fingers with Avery’s, we stand tall against the lingering stares. From the very moment we stepped through the door of English Lit, the whispers started. They ripple across the room, low and sharp, approaching us from every direction. To her credit, Avery doesn’t falter. Not that I’d expected her to, but she did indeed cry through sex with me last night. Most would have insisted on stopping, but I found it endearing. Being able to cradle her into my chest, kiss her tears, slowly pump my hips and fill her completely. She needed grounding, and I vowed to always be her safety net.

Squeezing her hand, I lead us further inside. Even Mrs. Patrick is watching us carefully, no doubt fully aware of the fight that broke out across our lawn two days ago. Everyone knows, since there are videos and photos circulating the studentmessaging board from onlookers I didn’t realize were present, and if there were any doubts, my face proves it. Sporting one black eye, a split lip and busted knuckles on one hand, I don’t appear as in control as I like. But it’s not me I’m currently concerned about.

As we make our way to the seats near the back, Avery’s eyes remain fixed ahead. A couple of people glance our way, then quickly turn back to their friends, whispering behind cupped hands. I catch snippets, words likefightandslut, harsh and ugly. My stomach twists, a flash of anger heating up my chest, but I force myself to keep walking. Once seated, I attend to Avery first, removing her highlighters from her backpack whilst she opens her notebook. Handing her the purple one, her favorite, she catches my gaze and smiles discreetly.

“It will pass,” I whisper, quietly reassuring. “They’re jealous, is all. You’ve taken quite a few studs off the market.” At this, a small laugh bubbles from her.

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