Page 16 of Blossom in Shadows

She needs to feel how far over the edge I am. It’s not her fault, but it falls at her feet. it’s not fair, I know it, but I can’t stop now.

I bend over her body and wrench her head to the side, loving the way her eyes are wide and wild. She looks just as hungry for me as I am for her. She needs to know this thing between us is soul deep, it will never be banished, it will never be overcome. As if either of us want it to be.

It’s inevitable.

“Tell me,” I snarl.

“I’m yours,” she gasps. “I deserve it. Show me. Punish me,” her eyes slide closed as the words are ripped from her, as if she knows the color of despair and the taste of pain.

Because she does. She understands. She feels it. She fucking knows.

“That’s right,” I grit out through my teeth.

I release my grip on the nape of her neck and slide my hand around to the front of her throat. Between one breath and the next, I squeeze on the sides of her jaw and cut off the blood flow there. She sucks in a sharp breath, holding it because I demand her to without a word.

I pummel into her, my hips a force of nature she can’t escape. She tries to wrench away from me and I only chuckle, the sound brushing against her ear and making her fight harder against my hold.

“Fight me all you want,” I growl, “it only makes me harder.”

I release my grip on her hip and slide my hand around until I’m cradling her lower abdomen. I pump into her a few times and release the grip I have around her neck slightly. The sound of her panting breaths is music, so much like what she was dancing to in the cage. The same cage where that man watched her.

Where he thought he could have her. As if she’s not fucking mine.

The anger at his audacity and the fear of losing her fills me again and I move faster, harder, chasing something which will never be relieved.

My hand slides down until I get to her clit. As I start to rub her sensitive bundle of flesh, I tighten my grip right under her jaw.

“Please,” the plea is breathless, barely a word, barely a sound, but I hear it.

I hear everything when it comes to her. It’s a blessing. It’s a curse.

I fuck her harder, feeling the impact of each thrust and knowing it has to sting against the welts on her skin. My balls slap against her wet flesh and I feel her tightening around me, closer, closer, closer.

I growl, “Coat my fucking dick with your cunt juices.”

She lets out a keening moan and I pinch her clit at the same time I release the grip I have around her neck, cradling the column of her throat in my hand instead of squeezing. The scream she lets out reverberates around us, echoing and coming back as her pussy pulses around my shaft.

I cover her back completely with my body, pressing her into the desk and holding her in place as I fill her with my cock and unload deep inside of her. My body demands to join her. My body demands to own her.

To claim her.

To mark the deepest parts of her with my seed.

She thinks she’s on birth control, but what she doesn’t know is I traded it out days ago. I’m not even a little bit ashamed of it. Not now. Not now that someone thought they could look at what is mine. To touch what is mine.

Any looming regret or guilt over my actions disappeared the moment that man approached her. I want everyone to know she’s mine and belongs to only me. I’ll plant my seed deep inside of her. I’ll breed her and tie her to me.

She has no idea that my heart is already hers. I might be a man whose world is built on power, on submission, on ownership, but with Zinnia, she owns me so much more than I could ever own her. I’m hers. I’m helpless when it comes to her brown eyes and the dreams which sparkle in there, hidden by pain and disappointment.

As we pant together, the haze of rage and feared heartbreak I’ve been in since the moment that man thought to touch her recedes and I’m left with her small sobs. I won’t apologize for what just happened, for my need to prove to her what I am capable of.

I kiss her neck and shoulder, small acts of absolution in a sea of sin. As I slump down into a chair, I pull her with me. While I cradle her in my arms, I run my fingers through her hair.

She blinks up at me and I steel myself for her to look at me with fear or hatred. When even the pain is gone and replaced by adoration and she smiles up at me before she cups my cheek in her hand, her delicate fingers running back and forth across my stubble, my heart stutters in my chest.

“Elio,” she breathes out, “I’m yours.”

I didn’t demand those words. She gives them willingly. Because she feels it just as deeply as I do. It’s not a declaration of love, but it’s good enough.

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