Page 191 of The Devil's Thorn
“Fuck you,” I spat, but the words came out cracked—shattered around the fire pooling in my core.
He didn’t move. Not yet.
His hand reached up and curled around my throat—tight, like a warning. “You can hate me all you want,” he whispered. “But your body knows exactly who I am.”
And then he started moving. Brutal. Unrelenting. Deep. Every thrust felt like punishment. Every graze of his teeth down my throat was a reminder—of who he was, of what we were doing, of how far I’d fallen.
And I couldn’t stop him.
Because some sick, twisted, godforsaken part of me didn’t want him to stop.
My wrists were burning. From the pull. From the way I couldn’t move. From the way he had me—tied, spread, open. And still, it wasn’t what had me shaking. It was him.
His hips crashed into mine, again and again, every thrust a threat and a promise. I could feel it in my spine, in the back of my teeth, in the air catching in my lungs every time he slammed so deep I swore he hit bone.
I wanted to scream. I wanted more.
“You feel that?” he growled, voice raw, breath hot against my ear. “That’s what it’s like when you stop pretending.”
“I’m not?—”
His hand came up, curling around my throat again. “Shut up, Isabella. Your mouth lies. But your body?” He rolled his hips, once, hard. “It fucking worships me.”
My moan cracked against the air, sharp and helpless, and his smirk pressed into my skin like a brand.
“You don’t get to come until I say so.”
I shook my head. “You can’t?—”
“But I will,” he said darkly. “And you will. Just like this. Tied up. Begging.”
I didn’t beg. But I broke.
My thighs shook, trying to hold him closer. My wrists flexed, trying to pull him in. My breath shattered in my throat as he fucked me deeper, harder, like he needed to bury himself in me just to survive the night.
“I hate you,” I gasped.
“You’ll hate me more after this,” he promised.
His hand slid between us. Just a touch. A stroke. A flick of his thumb. And the pressure snapped.
My back arched, stars exploded behind my eyes, and my body convulsed as a moan I didn’t even recognize as mine tore free from my throat.
“That’s it,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Let them all fucking hear you.”
I rode it out, wrists straining, body burning, chest heaving under the weight of the high he forced out of me.
And he didn’t stop.
His breathing was rough against my throat, sharp and unrelenting, and he didn’t slow—not even after my body had broken under his touch, after my cry had filled the room likesomething sacred and forbidden. No, Rafael Romanov wasn’t the kind of man who followed anyone else’s rhythm. He set it.
I was still gasping, wrists aching from the restraints, my head tipped back into the pillows as he buried himself deeper, faster, harder. My body jolted with every motion, my thighs trembling from the aftermath, and yet… I didn’t look away.
His eyes burned into mine, jaw locked and dangerous. A muscle ticked in his cheek as if he were still holding back, even now. Still calculating. Still in control.
“Look at you,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “All that fight, all that fury—undone by me.”
My chest rose sharply. “You’re delusional if you think this means anything.”
