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Cruel ironies. They arrive at their cruelest and most ironic just when you’ve convinced yourself that they don’t exist in the first place.
Friends. I fucking loathe that word. It’s gravel on my tongue, coarse and sharp and filthy.
“You never have to resort to dreams or fantasies when you’re with me, moya devushka. Just come to me. Tell me what you need and I’ll give you everything you want and more.”
“Take me like a good girl,” I snarl in her ear. “Ride me like you deserve it. Fall apart for me. Give me every fucking bit of you.”
Concentrate, you obsessive psychopath!
Come for me like my good little slut and maybe I’ll give you what you’re begging for.”
“I’m not teasing you,” he corrects. “Not really. I’m claiming you, baby. I’m reminding you that you are fucking mine. All mine. This pussy is mine. Those moans are mine. That baby in there is mine. Have I made myself clear?”
“Why wait for later when you could be dripping all over my face right now?”
“Speaking as a man who’s been inside you, it’s really fucking hard to come back out again.”
“These are the dumbest instructions I’ve ever seen in my life. I banish you to the shadow realm.”
Well, fuck me sideways with a toaster. Now, I’m emotional and turned-on.
He nods with satisfaction. “Good girl.” Oof. Wet. Instantly.
“Because I want you to carry my name, Wren. I want you to have the protection it carries. But that’s just the practical side of things. You want to know the unpractical part? That I’m addicted to you. And I’m a jealous bastard. A vengeful one. A proud one. So I want to put a rock on your finger that announces to the whole world that you are mine. That you always will be. That I love you. That no one alive has ever loved someone the way I love you.”
