Page 77 of Bitter When He Begs

He groans, full-bodied and guttural, like the sound’s being dragged straight from his spine. “You don’t know what that does to me. You don’t know how many nights I’ve dreamed about you saying that.”

“Then stop dreaming,” I whisper, voice trembling. “And fuck me.”

That’s it.

That’s what breaks him.

I feel the blunt press of his cock at my entrance, hot and thick and right there. He presses forward, slow and rough and deep, forcing me to feel every inch, every stretch, every inch of restraint he’s grippingby the fucking throatjust to keep from losing it.

My mouth drops open in a soundless gasp, my fingers fisting the sheets as he sinks in inch by inch until he’s all the way inside me; his hips flush against my ass, his hands gripping me tight.

I whimper, the stretch burning in the best way, my body trembling, my brain already short-circuiting as he holds still for a second—just a second—before pulling back and slamming in again, harder this time, the sound of it obscene in the quiet.

“God,” he breathes, fucking into me with rough, deep thrusts. “You feel so fucking good around me.”

“Luca—please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not,” he growls, slamming into me again. “Not until I hear you crying my name. Not until you forget every fucking man who’s ever touched you. Not until you know what it really means to bemine.”

I sob into the pillow, his name broken on my tongue.

“Cry for me, baby,” he growls, snapping his hips again, driving into me like he’s making up for every second he spent denying himself. “Keep making those pretty little noises.”

My back arches, my voice cracking as I moan for him, the stretch turning into pleasure so sharp it borders on pain, and it kills me.

“Goddamn, you were made for my cock,” he rasps, thrusting deeper, and making me choke on a moan.

I cry out again, and Luca’s hand moves from my waist, sliding up my back, over my shoulders, and tangling in my hair. “You like being split open on my cock, baby?” he pants, his pace relentless. “Like being my little whore?”

“Yes, fuck,” I cry out. “I’m yours! I’m your slut!”

Luca

“Yes,fuck,I’myours!I’m your slut!”

And fuck me, it breaks something in my chest.

The way he says it—shaking, breathless, real—knocks the air right out of me. His voice cracks on the last syllable, raw and ruined, and I swear I can feel it in my spine. Like that sound was made for me and me alone.

I grip his hips hard enough to bruise and shove my cock back in—one brutal thrust—and his whole body jerks, and I groan, already losing control.

“Say it again,” I snarl, my hand tangling in his hair again and yanking his head back, forcing him to arch deeper for me. “Louder.”

He whimpers. God, he’s shaking. I fuck into him faster, rougher, and he sobs out, “I’m yours. I’m your fucking slut, Luca, please don’t stop. I don’t care if it hurts!”

My brain whiteouts for a second.

I fuck into him like something inside me needs to split him open and carve myself in. My hips slam into his ass over and over, bruising, punishing, fast enough to make the bed groan under us, fast enough to make him scream.

All that tension, all that teasing, all that fucking noise he makes when he fights me… it ends now.

I make it end.

“You want to be my little fucktoy, huh?” I snarl against his neck, the slick sound of our bodies crashing together so loud I can barely hear myself think. “You want everyone to know who this hole belongs to?”

“Yes,” he sobs. “Yes, yes, yes—”

I moan like I’ve never heard anything hotter. Every time I thrust in, he chokes out a sound that makes my cock throb harder. I’m not going to last long, and I know it. But neither is he.

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