Page 121 of Beautiful Cruelty

His tongue flicks against me, and I gasp, my hands gripping the sheets. The sensation is electric, sending shockwaves through my body. I try to hold on, to keep some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through my fingers like sand.

And I don’t care.

Control has always been an illusion. I’ve spent my life trying to hold everything together—my family, my dreams, my heart—but it’s never worked. I’ve always been at the mercy of forces I couldn’t control. Nathan’s betrayal, Laura’s death, Freddy’s cruelty, even Vadim’s proposal—none of it was in my hands.

But this? Letting go? This is something that no-one can take from me.

This is something that is one-hundred fucking percent mine, even if it might not seem that way.

And it feelsright.

His mouth works me with a precision that leaves me trembling. My hips lift off the bed, chasing the pleasure he’s giving me. My thoughts scatter, replaced by a single, all-consuming need.

I’m falling, unraveling, and I don’t want to stop.

When I come, it’s with a cry that echoes through the room. My body shatters against his mouth, waves of pleasure crashing over me. For a moment, everything else fades away—the pain, the fear, the guilt.

As the aftershocks subside, I open my eyes to find him watching me, his expression unreadable.

“It’s not enough,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He tilts his head, his gaze sharp. “What would be enough?”

I get up on all fours, turn around, brace my hands on the bed, and look back at him over my shoulder.

"Use me," I demand, my voice low and needy. "Fuck me like you mean it."

His eyes darken with lust and something else, something primal. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he pushes into me.

The force of it drives the air from my lungs in a sharp gasp.

It’s the kind of pain that makes me feel alive.

The kind that frees me from all other emotions warring for control inside of me.

And I need more.

"Yes," I moan, pushing back against him as my fingers clutching at the sheets. "Harder."

He hesitates, his rhythm faltering for just a moment, and I can feel the question in him. He won’t hurt me. Not unless I ask him to. But even then, I’m not sure he will. He’s too careful, too controlled, too... good.

And that’s the problem. I don’t want him to be good. Not right now. I want him to be cruel, to make me feel the weight of everything I’ve lost.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. But then his hand slides up my thigh, his grip firm, almost bruising. His thrusts become rougher, more erratic, and I can feel him teetering on the edge of control. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

“Do it,” I urge, my voice trembling. “Do it and don't you fucking stop.”

He hesitates again, his skin hot against mine. I can sense the struggle in his soul, the battle between what I’m asking and whathe’s willing to give. And I know, deep down, that he won’t cross that line. Not unless I make him.

“Fuck me like a slut,” I plead. “Fuck me like a whore. Choke me. Pull my hair. Make me hurt so that I can’t think of anything else.”

That’s when I realize what I’m really asking him to do. It’s not just about the pleasure, the connection, the escape.

It’s about the pain.

Iwanthim to hurt me. I want him to punish me, to make me feel like I deserve this—like I deserve the guilt that’s eating me alive. Irina’s blood will always be on my hands, and no amount of scrubbing will ever wash it away.

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