Page 117 of Claim of Blood
“Don’t fight it,” Adam murmured.
Lander’s body moved. He rolled onto his stomach, muscles taut, face burning. Behind him, the soft sound of sweatpants hitting the floor was followed by a silence that hummed with tension.
The mattress dipped under Adam’s weight.
Strong hands gripped his hips, lifting him to his knees. His chest stayed pressed to the bed, arms trembling with restraint. His thighs spread open—exposed, vulnerable, offered.
He panted into the mattress, heat building behind his eyes. He needed to move, to fight, to claw back a sense of control, but all he could do was shake, blood pounding in his ears.
“You’re still in your head,” Adam said softly, hand gliding up Lander’s spine. “Still fighting.”
The first strike cracked through the air.
Adam’s palm connected with Lander’s upturned ass, and Lander flinched violently. Pain bloomed hot across his exposed skin.
The second blow landed on the same spot before the first had faded. Then a third, deliberate, exacting, each strike falling across his bare cheeks with punishing force.
Each blow drove out thought, resistance, everything but the burning sting and Adam’s voice.
“Stop fighting me,” Adam said, his hand coming down again. “Stop thinking.”
Lander gritted his teeth, his breath hitching.
“I’m not—”
Adam’s hand came down harder, cutting off his words. “Your body knows what it wants. Why won’t you listen?”
Each strike layered on the last, burning into him. Lander gripped the sheets like a lifeline, knuckles white. His cock betrayed him, heavy and leaking between his thighs.
“Let go,” Adam said again, voice unshaken.
“No,” Lander gasped. But it was already too late.
Something snapped—not his will, but the scaffolding of pride he’d built around it. A choked sob escaped him, involuntary and raw. His shoulders sagged. His body melted into the sheets.
“There,” Adam murmured, landing another stinging slap. “There it is.”
Lander’s face pressed into the mattress, tears sliding sideways into the fabric, his split lip staining it dark. He stopped counting. The pain stopped being pain; it was rhythm. A drumbeat. It emptied him out.
When Adam stopped, Lander was trembling. His ass was scorched and aching, thighs quivering. But the chaos in his head had gone silent. All that remained was heat, breath, and the presence behind him.
Adam’s hand stroked over him gently now. “So good for me.”
The praise made Lander’s chest tighten, something warm and treacherously sweet curling low in his gut. He heard the soft click of the lube cap, the wet sound of slicked fingers, and for the first time, he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t tense. Didn’t try to run.
He just stayed.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Adam said, voice gone quiet and reverent, one hand still gently soothing the overheated skin of Lander’s ass. “When you stop fighting what you need.”
A cool finger traced lazy circles around Lander’s entrance, drawing a shiver that skated up his spine. The teasing was maddening, not because it was cruel, but because it was patient. Earnest. Worshipful.
Then Adam pressed in.
Lander gasped, his body stiffening at the intrusion. But the pain didn’t spike. It rolled slow, blending with the heat of his skin, with the raw throb left by Adam’s earlier assault.
“Breathe,” Adam murmured. His free hand splayed across Lander’s lower back, grounding him with steady pressure. “Let me in.”
