Page 136 of Only for Him
I don’t care.
His thrusts are savage, unrelenting. He fucks me like he’s trying to drive my past out of me, and for a second, I think he’s succeeding. I’m nothing but sensation. Just pleasure snapping its jaws at my nerves, pain simmering underneath.
“Roman,” I whimper.
I know what happens to him when I say his name. And I love it. The speed of his thrusts increases, slamming inside me like a piston, making my whole body bounce and go stiff with ecstasy.
I come fast and hard, clenching around him, my nails carving welts into his back. He follows with a sound I’ve never heard from him before, like he’s trying to exorcise himself, too.
He carries me up the stairs, still inside me, still half-hard and getting harder. I groan, writhing, his hand holding my upper back to support me as I grind against his waist, his seed slipping out of me around his cock, our flesh hot and wet as we burn together.
“I want another one,” he demands. “Show me what this cock does to you.”
The tick of his hips, back and forth as he walks, creates a mind-numbing rhythm against my clit, until I’m coming again on his abs, our mouths attached, tongues swirling and diving deeper into each others’ mouths.
He tosses me onto the bed and growls as I crawl forward and wrap my lips around his cock, tasting both of us on his skin. I drag my tongue along the thick vein beneath the shaft, flicking it across the swollen head like I’m taunting him.
Like I want to be punished for how good it feels.
His hands find my face. Big, rough palms cupping my cheeks like he owns me. Like he’s about to crush the thought out of me. And then he starts to fuck my mouth—slow at first, then deeper, harder, until he’s in my throat and I can’t inhale, can’t even think.
And it makes me soaked.
Maybe this is the only way I know how to pray: on my knees, with my mouth stretched wide and my throat full of cock.
Because even now, I’m the one making him lose control.
The growls tearing from his chest? Mine.
The flame in those ice-pick eyes? Mine.
The way he shudders and empties himself into my stomach, hands shaking on my jaw?
All fucking mine.
“More,” he groans, voice cracked open. One hand slips between my thighs and finds me dripping.
I immediately buck on his palm, my swollen clit buzzing against the heel of his hand while his fingers curl and stroke inside me, mouth still slick from the taste of him, brain gone white with need.
He pushes me down, forces my legs apart and my knees up, wraps his hand around my neck and squeezes until I fall apart again.
By the time we’re through, we’ll be fuck-drunk and filthy. He’ll have tied me to the bed and whipped me into a submission I thought only the devil himself could ask of a soul.
I’ll be covered in his cum, sticky with my own juices, exhausted enough that whatever hell we walked through to get here will seem like the sanest part of the night.
At least, that’s how it’s been—night after night.
Tonight is different.
We’ve been doing this for two weeks now: he brings them to me and we break them open, seeing what’s inside. We draw out their pain until they admit to whatever role they played in Serena’s fate. They’re always Bratva, involved in not only Serena’s murder but more girls than I want to imagine: auctioneers, scouts, handlers, men whose filthy hands dragged my sister to hell.
The man Roman brought me tonight didn’t look like the others. It wasn’t just the unassuming clothes, the rimless glasses, and the boring haircut. He didn’t have that predator’s gleam in his eyes. He was a schoolteacher. He could’ve been my neighbor. Or yours.
Did he get the wrong man? Did Roman finally make a mistake? He said he wouldn’t, but he’s not a fucking superhero. It’s only a matter of time before we torture an innocent man.
And when I demanded Roman tell me who the guy was, he just told me I’d find out. It felt like a test.
Goddammit, I know I passed, but I shouldn’t have.
