Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Hurting like this when we have sex is the most freeing experience of my life. I've never wanted anything more. Other people, even the Irish, treated me like I was a delicate fucking flower. And I'm not. I like being pushed, prodded, broken. I can't explain it, but there's something about being flayed open like this that makes me feel so satisfied. It's as if his pain makes mine more bearable. It's controlled.
"We should probably put… some antiseptic on that?" Now that the haze of lust is lifting, I see that I scratched the fuck out of him like a cat.
He reaches for my shoulder, and I wince. What the hell? I look down to see a bite mark that's already bruising.
"Oh my god. Fucking hell. I overdid it." His voice cracks as he says, "I'm sorry."
I put my hand on his shoulder and push him back a little. "Stop that. Don't you dare fucking apologize. That was brilliant."
The heat of his body, the ragged way he breathes against my skin, the weight of what we just did presses down on both of us. I know it does because of the way his forehead meets mine, and he breathes heavily.
He shakes his head. "I could've hurt you."
I meet his gaze. "I could've taken more."
Silence.
Heavy.
Charged.
Then, a shift—so small, so lethal. His grip tightens, his thumb dragging over the inside of my wrist as if checking for a weak point, needing to feel my pulse thrumming like something caged. “I know,” he murmurs. It feels like a confession. His voice is quieter now but no less dangerous. “That’s what terrifies you, isn’t it?”
My breath catches. I can’t look away. Because… he’s right. I’ve spent my whole life running, outthinking, outmaneuvering the few men who ever got close to me.
Until… him.
He doesn’t just chase me—he’s caught me. And he might just break me.
He stares into my eyes, and I worry he can read me, that he knows what I fear worse than death.
I breathe out a sigh of relief when he nods toward the bathroom. "Shower. Now. I got a text we need to respond to.”
But he doesn’t make a move.
"Oh?"
My limbs are heavy, my body aches, and my skin is raw where he spanked me, bit me, and held me down. I should get up and move, slip away like I always do. But this time, I don't. I can't. Because he's still here, and something's wrong.
"Matvei?"
I half expect him to roll away, put on that cold mask, that calculating detachment that reminds me I asked for this. Because I did.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he touches me. Not rough or possessive. His fingers trace over my skin, over every bruise and mark he left, as if memorizing the damage. His breath hitches, and when I glance up at him, there's something in his expression I don't understand. Regret? Guilt? It’s almost like he’s ashamed of himself. Like he hates himself for the way he just fucked me.
A part of me thinks about throwing it in his face, laughing at him, taunting him. But I won’t. I can’t. Because when he moves, when he leaves the bed, I feel his absence like he just took a part of me with him. What the fuck is that?
I sit up slowly, my body sore, my thighs shaking. He fucked the hell out of me, and he was not gentle.
And then—warmth. Gentleness. A cloth pressed to my skin, wiping away the sweat, the mess, the evidence of what we just did. I freeze. There’s nothing he could’ve done that would’ve taken me off guard as quickly as this.
I don’t know what to do. He kneels in front of me, his expression unreadable as he cleans me and takes care of me. Carefully, delicately, like I’m something fragile. Like he cares.
I bite my lip hard enough that it hurts because something inside me is breaking open, and I can’t handle this. I don’t want him to know that his tenderness undoes me in a way his roughness never could.
I can handle his cruelty, his punishment. I can handle the way he holds me down and takes me like I belong to him, tosses me around, slaps my ass, bites me, marks me. But this? This tenderness? This fucking gentleness?
I want to shove him away, tell him to stop because it’s making me sad. My throat is tight, my chest is hollow, and my hands curl into fists in my lap. His fingers skim over my skin, his touch light.
"Anissa." His voice is low and strained.
I shake my head. I don’t want to look at him because if I do, I might cry. And I don’t cry. Why is he treating me like I’m something precious?
For the first time… I don’t want to run. I want to stay right here.