Page 77 of True Bastard
A low, guttural gasp tore from his throat, choked and desperate, devoured by the hungry cavern of his mouth. My nails, raw and ragged, gouged into the fabric of his shirt, a frantic, primal clawing. I clung to him with a ferocity that threatened to shatter bone, desperate to imprint every searing inch of him onto my skin, to steal the very air he breathed.
He tore himself away, exhaling a breath that was both a torment and a salvation, and which ghosted teasingly against my lips. His eyes, molten pools of obsidian, bored into mine, a predator’s gaze sifting through the wreckage of my soul, searching for... what? A flicker of recognition? A surrender? Then, as a raw, animalistic growl tore from my own depths, a slow, predatory smile stretched his lips.
“There she is,” he purred, the sound a velvet rasp laced with something sharp and dangerous, a menacing promise that ignited the very marrow of my bones.
He didn’t wait for my permission, didn’t need my assent. His mouth crashed down again, a devastating wave this time, not of force, but of pure, unadulterated possession. It was a claiming,a desperate artistry of taste and touch, as if he were devouring the very essence of me. His hand, no longer a gentle caress on my jaw, slid with predatory grace down the sensitive curve of my neck, tracing the frantic pulse beneath my skin, then found the exposed landscape of my back. He pulled me in, a vise of raw, unyielding power, pressing me into the furnace of his being. Every inch of me screamed at the solid, muscled wall of him, the undeniable, scorching testament to his need a searing brand against my own flesh.
My own body erupted. Blood, a molten river, surged through my veins, a guttural hum, a primal thrumming that resonated in the very marrow of my bones. My hands, desperate anchors, clawed at his broad shoulders, seeking purchase against the tidal wave threatening to drown me. His heat, a tangible force against the unexpected cool of my palms, fanned the inferno igniting in the pit of my stomach into a raging conflagration.
He shifted, lifting me with a silent, potent strength, and my legs parted as if by unseen command. His knee—a deliberate, excruciatingly sensual intrusion—found the tender space between them. A choked sob ripped from my throat, tearing through the charged air, and my head snapped back against the unforgiving wood of the door, baring the vulnerable, pulsing skin of my throat to the hungry night. Firestride answered, his lips a scorching brand, a trail of hot, wet devastation, tasting, claiming, owning every inch of me as he descended.
“Mine.” The word, spoken as a decree, a brand seared against my skin, promised not just possession, but utter annihilation of my will. Arrogant? Yes. Infuriating? Not in this fevered delirium. Instead, his claim echoed like a dark gospel, a forbidden scripture I craved, a promise of oblivion I eagerly embraced.
His hand, scorching and greedy, traced a path of fire down my spine, then sank, a possessive anchor, cupping the curve of my hip, crushing me against the undeniable testament ofhis need. The raw friction, the searing heat, the savage hunger radiating from him—it was a tidal wave, drowning me in its intensity.
I bucked into him, a wordless, desperate prayer for more, for the sweet surrender he offered. My fingers dug into the hard planes of his shoulders, anchoring me to this precipice, pulling him deeper into the maelstrom. His scent, a dark, intoxicating musk; his taste, a potent elixir; the sheer, unyielding force of him—it was a potent, all-consuming drug. Every thought, every sensation, dissolved, leaving only him, the gravitational center of my entire shattered universe.
He ripped himself from my throat, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as his gaze, molten and furious, pinned me. “Say it,” he snarled, the words slashing through the air between us. “Tell me you’re mine.” The demand vibrated through his very bones, a tremor that shook the foundation of my resistance.
My lungs burned, each gasp a ragged fight against the tightening vise around my throat. My response clawed at my tongue, a brutal war waged between the stubborn fortress of my pride and the screaming, undeniable hunger that clawed at my insides. But then his eyes—those tempestuous, bottomless pools—met mine. They were wildfires, promising to consume me, to strip away every last shred of my being and remake me in his image. In that scorching inferno, my carefully constructed walls of hate, defiance, and ambition crumbled to ash. They were nothing against the tidal wave of his desire, a force so potent it mirrored the volcanic eruption within my own soul, finally, irrevocably, unleashed.
My voice, when it finally escaped, was a wounded thing, a rasp torn from the depths of my being. “I’m yours,” I choked out, the confession a surrender, a covenant forged in fire.
A slow, easy grin, sharp and predatory, stretched his lips, the kind that promised teeth and destruction. It was a smile that saw its prey cornered, already broken.
“Damn right you are.” His words rumbled deep in his chest, before his mouth crashed down on mine.
My body thrummed, a desperate hum against the brutal force of his mouth. His hands, calloused and possessive, cupped my ass, lifting me with an ease that mocked gravity, pressing me further into the unyielding planes of his chest. He moved with a graceful ease, carrying me as if I were merely a whisper of weight, his gaze, a dark, victorious inferno, locked onto mine.
He strode towards his bed, a throne of dark satin, and lowered me onto the inviting sheets. My legs, like welcoming vines, unfurled, opening wider, an instinctive surrender to the hunger he radiated, as he released me only to stroke his hard cock.
A guttural sound, more animal than human, tore from my throat as my fingers clawed at him, a desperate, futile attempt to bridge the agonizing space between us. My very core throbbed, a raw, aching void that wept and pleaded for his invasion.
“Look at you,” he breathed, the words unfurling low and reverent. His gaze, a tangible weight, stripped me bare, raking over every curve, every hollow, his lips parting in a silent, possessive caress. “Fucking... exquisite.”
His hand, an anchor of raw power, moved with deliberate intent, a slow ascent along the sensitive landscape of my thigh, forcing my legs into a wider, more vulnerable extension. His fingertips, a brush of wildfire, teased the swollen, slick folds of my pussy, and the contact detonated, a molten shockwave that surged through every nerve ending.
“Please.” My plea was a ragged whisper, torn from lungs that burned, my body already a frantic, needy bow straining against his touch.
His fingers, knowing and relentless, found the slick heat of my core, testing, assessing, confirming my raw, unfettered readiness. A sharp, involuntary gasp ripped from me as my hips instinctively rolled, bucking into his probing fingers, a timeless dance of desperate need. I was a drowned thing, drowning in my own wetness, my entire being screaming for him.
His thumb, a masterful caress, circled my clit, and a moan, a stolen, ragged breath, escaped my lips, a sound I couldn’t, wouldn’t, contain.
He shifted with a controlled ease, aligning himself, the searing, unyielding pressure of his erection poised at my entrance. My breath hitched, a strangled sound, my fingers digging into the unyielding planes of his shoulders, anchoring myself against the rising tide of sensation.
“Please.” The word was a desperate, choked whisper, raw with a hunger that gnawed at my soul.
His eyes, dark and fathomless, the color of a storm-ravaged sky, bored into me, a silent, intense interrogation. “Say it.” His voice was a silken threat, laced with an ancient power. “Say the fucking word, Kitten.”
“Joshua.”
He drove into me, a single, searing motion, obliterating the space between us, claiming every inch of my core. A ragged sound tore from my throat, a shriek that was a raw, agonizing symphony of surrender and exquisite torment. My flesh, stretched taut and exquisitely invaded, convulsed, clinging to him with desperate intensity. He stilled, a breath held in the charged air, his hips a solid anchor, pressing a burning promise into mine, a possessive weight that pinned me. The sensation wasn’t just fullness; it was a wildfire igniting from my deepest core, a fierce, all-consuming inferno.
“I’m going to fuck you raw, Kitten,” he rasped, the words a guttural vow laced with the feral edge of ownership, hiships beginning their slow, deliberate invasion. “Until you forget where you end and I begin.”
His initial rhythm was a dark, unhurried tide, each deliberate push a profound immersion, building with a relentless, ancient force. His gaze was a brand, locked onto mine, devouring every nuance of my reaction, every tremor that betrayed the tempest raging within me. He wasn’t just a lover; he was a sculptor, and my yielding body his raw, exquisite clay, shaped by his masterful, dominating hands.
My fingers, white-knuckled and rigid on his broad shoulders, tightened their desperate grip, nails tearing shallow trenches into the molten landscape of his back. My head thrashed back, my spine a taut bow, my throat laid bare, a beacon to his predatory hunger. Every powerful thrust was a declaration, a visceral affirmation of his mastery and my willing subjugation.
