Page 101 of American Beauty

“Good girl,” he says, stroking my hair. “Fuck, you’re so perfect for me.”

My nails dig into the backs of his thighs, holding on as he thrusts into my mouth, more ragged now, more broken, his body shuddering with the effort it takes to hold himself back.

“Your mouth is sweet, but it’s not where I want to come.”

He hauls me to my feet so fast the room spins. His mouth crashes to mine—rough, bruising, desperate. His hands are everywhere—fisting in my hair, yanking me closer, dragging me against the hard lines of his body. I kiss him back with everything I have—the guilt, the regret, the fierce, endless love I carry for him.

He turns me around, pressing me against the wall. His mouth finds the side of my neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Hands slide over my body, worshipping and punishing at the same time—palming my breasts, squeezing my hips, fingers digging into my skin like he can imprint himself onto me.

His voice is a growl against my skin. “You are mine, Magnolia. No one else touches you. No one else hears you come. Ever.”

I whimper, arching back against him, needing more, needing him to erase every mistake, every memory that doesn’t include him.

He yanks me back by the hair just enough to whisper in my ear, “You’re going to take everything I give you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes… sir.”

He growls against my ear. “You know how much I like hearing that.”

His hand slides between my thighs, rough and claiming, stroking once, twice.

“Already so fucking wet for me,” he says, sinking two fingers inside me without warning. “Your pussy never disappoints.”

I cry out, my hands flying to brace myself against the wall as he fucks me with his hand, deep and punishing, building me up so fast I’m already on the edge.

“You wanted it rough. You asked for this, favorite. Don’t you dare run from it now.”

I don’t. I can’t.

He twists his fingers inside me, hitting that spot that makes me shatter, pushing me over the edge with ruthless precision.

But he doesn’t stop.

He turns me to face him, scooping me up into his arms, carrying me toward the bed with a savage tenderness. He lays me down like I’m something precious, like he’s staking his claim.

His body hovers over mine, big and powerful, pinning me down without even needing to touch me. His hands skim up my sides, slow, firm, claiming every inch of skin like it belongs to him.

Because it does. It always has.

“Spread your legs for me.”

I obey, baring myself for him, trembling with need. His mouth curves into something dark and devastating—not a smile, not exactly. Something more like possession.

He grips my thighs, dragging me to the edge of the bed, lining himself up with my body.

No teasing this time. No slow burn.

Just Alex and…

Raw. Ruthless. Rapture.

The first thrust knocks the air from my lungs. I cry out, arching into him, but he doesn’t let up. He drives into me hard, deep, again and again.

“That’s it. Take all of me.”

I do.

God, I do.

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