Page 39 of Pretty When He Bleeds

I glare at him, but I can’t stop my body from arching into him, can’t stop the way my breath stutters when he rolls his hips against mine. “Try again,” he says, his voice silk and sin. “Tell me exactly what you want, Roman. Beg for it.”

My face burns and my pride won’t fucking let me.

Damon watches me for a moment, dragging his fingers down my stomach, but never touching me where I need him. My cock throbs, aching, as he traces patterns over my skin, his lips trailing lower, lower—then he stops.

“Beg,” he repeats, lifting his head and locking those gorgeous green eyes onto mine. “Or I don’t touch you at all.”

I groan, my back arching, my body practically thrumming with need. Fucking bastard. I want to fight him on this, want to keep some kind of control. But then he presses down on my piercings again, rolling them between his fingers and sending tiny pinpricks of pain through my nerves and I fucking whimper.

Damon tilts his head, his smirk widening. “That’s cute, but it’s not begging.”

“Fuck you,” I bite out, my voice rough.

He sighs, mock-disappointed, then—fuck. His teeth sink into my hip, right next to one of my piercings, and I cry out, my fingers flying to his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

Heat floods my body, every nerve ending alive with sharp pleasure-pain, and it’s too much, not enough—

“Please,” I gasp. “Damon, please.”

He hums against my skin, his mouth moving back to my chest, his tongue flicking over my nipple again. “Not bad, but I know you can do better.” I try to grind up against him, but he holds me down. “Down boy, and beg me nicely.”

“Iambegging,” I grit out, my face burning with frustration.

Damon chuckles again, his fingers ghosting over my stomach, tracing the lines of my abs before stopping just above the waistband of my jeans. “Nah, not really,” he drawls. “You want me to touch you? You want me to wreck you?”

I nod, swallowing thickly, but he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Words, Hotshot.” His fingers skim lower, barely touching, teasing me just to be a dick. “Say it properly.”

I groan, throwing my head back. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s fucking good at it. My pride is dying a slow death, and fuck it—I don’t care anymore. I drag my gaze back to his, my lips parting as I finally let myself break for him.

“Please,” I whisper again, voice ragged, desperate. “Please, Damon. I need you. I need you to fucking ruin me.”

His lips curl into a smirk, satisfaction radiating from him like heat. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he chuckles darkly, running his tongue over one of his bites on my hips. “Such a good little painslut.”

Roman

Damon’slipstraildown,each kiss and bite blurring the line between pain and pleasure until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. He drags his nails down my torso again, harder this time, and the sting makes me arch into him, a low groan slipping out before I can stop it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. “That’s what I want to hear.”

I hate how much I want this—how much I need it. But at this moment, I don’t have the strength to fight him or myself. It’s like Damon’s punishments are wired to my pleasure.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his green eyes trailing over my body like he’s committing every mark and bruise to memory. His gaze lingers on the dried blood at the corner of my mouth, and his cruel smirk returns.

“You’re a mess,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Letting some asshole beat the shit out of you like that.”

“Like you care,” I shoot back, my voice even despite the way my chest tightens at his words.

Damon’s eyes snap to mine, and I shiver at how fucking livid he looks. “You’re right. I don’t care about what happened in that bar.”

My stomach twists, but before I can say anything, he leans in close, his lips brushing against mine as he murmurs, “But I care about this. About you bleeding for someone else when I told you not to.”

I glare at him, but the heat in his voice makes my resolve crack. “I didn’t ask for your fucking permission.”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply, his thumb brushing over the bruise on my cheek and pushing against it. “Because I’ve decided you’re mine now. No one else gets to touch you, hurt you, or see you like this. You want pain, Hotshot?I’llgive you pain.”

I want to argue, to tell him he’s out of his goddamn mind, but then his mouth is everywhere—teeth, tongue, and lips all wreaking havoc on my skin in a way that feels more like possession than affection.

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