Page 39 of XV (Fifteen) (War of Roses 1)

Nothing.

I’m so sure of that that I can’t stop myself from croaking, “Will you?”

I almost sound amused. Intrigued?

At the prospect, my captor growls in irritation, freeing himself from his boxers. To prove that he can. That he will. And as I stare down at what rises beneath a thatch of blond curls, a word comes to mind. Something terrifying. A term I’d never apply, even to Robert.

Beautiful?

Dusky flesh and glistening ridges form a cock as repulsive as it is impressive. He could break me.

And maybe there will be nothing left...

“Beg.” He hammers the word into my skin with his teeth, nipping the flesh of my throat. He’s too close. Flexing his hips brings him between my legs. Heavy. Dominating.

A moan dies behind my teeth as the slick crown of his cock bats against my entrance. Beg? But how? I can’t get any air to go into my lungs.

Robert would take his time at this point in the game, stretching me with his fingers, telling me all the while that I want him.We were made for each other, Elle,he’d croon.

There is no such teasing with Mischa.

“Fine, Little One,” he snarls, bracing his hand against my thigh. “I’ll show you just how much like him I can be.” One flex of his hips and he slams into me with a groan. A curse. A million fucking words hissed in English and whatever language he natively speaks.

I see black. Then white porcelain as my head falls back and a scream claws its way from my throat. He’s too fucking big. I’m too tight. We justdon’tfit, and that natural deterrent demands one solution: He has to force his way into me. Thrust after thrust. Over. Over. Again.

I feel him in my skull, like a battering ram, fucking my body and not just the space between my legs. All of me.

“Say it,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Fucking…say it. I’ll stop—”

An answering moan trickles from my lips. I can’t contain it. Begging, finally?

But no. My ears catch my own voice whispering something far more dangerous. “M-more.” I tremble, every nerve in an uproar.

This isn’t part of the script. This isn’t right. This isn’t…Robert.

He’s not Robert.

That fact is only solidified by how roughly he thrusts into me—not patient and unhurried. He’sfrenzied.Splitting me open. Ripping me apart.

Like he doesn’tneedto save me for another round. I’m not his toy to keep unbroken.

“What…what the fuck did you say?” he demands. But his body contradicts the anger in his voice. Even now, he’s throbbing and thickening. So deep. Not deep enough. “Stop.” Gritting his teeth, he starts to withdraw, hissing into my ear, “Tell me to stop.” It’s not a command as much as it is a plea.

But there are no rules anymore. My body has a mind of its own, taking control of my throat to voice it as my knees draw up around him. “M-more—”

“Fuck,” he hisses in confusion, gripping my hips.

Before I can even register his absence, he’s back. Deeper. Harder. Faster. Our lips fuse, grappling for leverage, and I finally feel the fear I should. It’s hotter than fire. Than hate. Burning. Scorching. Desolating.

“Beg,” he pleads, still on a vicious race toward his own release.

But my lips seal shut as a grim realization sinks in:I won’t beg…

I don’t want to.

It’s like that single thought is the trigger to surrender. My body tightens, rippling around him, collapsing in on itself. He snarls at the reaction, still thrusting. Harder. Faster.

He fucks his rage into me without mercy. Everything. I feel him shuddering with release and sullying the shell of Robert Winthorp’s “whore.” Deflated, he slumps against me, knocking the air from my chest.

And I lie here, letting him crush me.

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