Page 91 of The Rogue and His Flower

This is as far from making love as two people can get, and I’m mindless, my ability to be a thoughtful lover going out of the fucking window. Every part of my consciousness hones in on the way her pussy squeezes my cock, how she cries out as though in blissful agony. My free hand grasps her hip hard enough to bruise, and I should care, but I don’t.

I want to mark her.

I want her to feel what I feel. Frenzied. Out of control. Fuckingmindless.

I give in to everything we’ve both been fighting so hard against.

“Oh, that feels so good,” she cries, driving me insane. “Youfeel so good.”

“I. Can’t. Love. You,” I counter, thrusting inside of her with every word, warning her of everything I’m incapable of.

Except they don’t feel like a fucking warning at all, they feel like a goddamn lie. So I say those words again in an attempt to blot out the riot of emotions in my chest at how it feels to finally be inside of her.

“I.”

Thrust

“Can’t.”

Thrust.

“Love.”

Thrust.

“You.”

Thrust.

Sex has never been about feelings, it’s only ever been about pleasure, and I’m angry at her for drawing something out of me that I’m not willing to give up. So I push those thoughts away and bury myself so deep inside of her that I feel the crown of my dick hitting her cervix.

“I don’t love you either,” she cries back, pushing against me, taking everything I give and meeting the frantic rock of my hips with a frenziedness of her own.

Her words anger me. They shouldn’t, but they do because she didn’t say shecan’tlove me. She said shedoesn’tlove me when I know she’s more than capable of loving others.

Inexplicably, thathurts. It fucking hurts.

So I go harder, faster, driving her forward, rutting like a mindless beast. My cock throbs with fury as I slam into her over and over, the sound of our bodies colliding echoing around the bathroom. She's taking it all, every thrust, every harsh whisper, every primitive grunt as I lose myself to the animalistic need to possess her, own her, ruin her until she’s mine.

The words 'I can’t love you' bounce around my head, seeming as hollow as the air we're breathing. They were spoken reflexively, a reaction to this moment, but they resonate within my chest, a nagging reminder of the lies I’ve been telling myself,her, and I hate myself for it.

I try to drive away those thoughts by wrapping her hair around my clenched fist and fucking her mercilessly. Every stroke brings a mixture of agony and pleasure that threatens to consume me whole. Her cries fill the bathroom, mingling with the sounds of our bodies slapping together, driving us both to the edge.

“I’m going to come!” she cries and I feel her muscles clench around me, signalling her oncoming release. I'm right behind her, unable to hold back any longer.

“Come for me. Come for me, Daisy. Milk my fucking cock!” I roar, and with one final, powerful thrust, I spill inside her, our bodies shaking with the intensity of our union.

We collapse together, gasping for air, our hearts beating in sync as the aftershocks of our orgasms ripple through us. My chest is against her back, my heart slamming against my ribcage, her body quaking.

For long moments, we simply remain joined together, my body over hers as we bask in the raw, unbridled passion that has consumed us. Then, as the last pulses of our pleasure fade, reality seeps back in, and I find myself growing ashamed of my own actions. The words I spoke to her, the way I lost control and fucked her in a way I’ve never truly done before, and I’m not talking about being rough, I’m talking about the feelings she’s conjured within me. Too much emotion whirls inside my chest, and it all feels like a nightmare I can't wake up from.

Pulling out of her, I step back on shaky legs, running a hand through my hair as she pushes upright, turning to face me. Her face is flushed, her pupils blown wide, her chest heaving as she stares at me, a host of conflicting emotions rushing across her features. My eyes drop to her thighs, and the red line that crosses the tops of them from me ramming her against the vanity unit.

“Daisy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rough–”

“Don’t apologise. I wanted this. You wanted this. I’m okay. Are you?” she asks tentatively.

Am I okay? The truthful answer is, no. No, I’m not fucking okay. I might have come, but I don’t feel relief, I feel fucking churned up inside.

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