Page 44 of Cruel Submission

His tongue sweeps past my lips. I taste mint on his breath, feel the scratch of stubble against my chin. My hands slide up his chest—over scars I’ve traced in the dark, ink I’ve memorized—into his hair.

Water streams between us. He walks me backward until my spine hits cold tile, and then his hands are everywhere. Rough palms on my breasts—squeezing hard enough to hurt, thumbs circling nipples that are tender from pregnancy hormones I haven’t told him about.

“I need you,” he growls against my mouth. “Now.”

It’s not a request.

I nod anyway.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist, and then he’s pushing inside me in one hard thrust that steals my breath.

I cry out—pleasure and pain tangling—and his hand clamps over my mouth.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against my ear. “Don’t want the whole house hearing what I do to you.”

That’s a first.

He sets a punishing rhythm, hips driving forward with enough force that my shoulders scrape tile with each thrust. It hurts. The good kind of hurt that I’ll feel tomorrow, that will remind me I’m his, even when he’s gone. His fingers dig into my ass—bruising grip, holding me in place, angling me exactly how he wants me.

My head bumps against the tile. Once. Twice. Stars burst behind my eyelids, but I don’t tell him to stop. Don’t want him to stop.

His other hand fists in my wet hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat. He bites down—not gently—and I gasp, trying not to swallow the water streaming down my face.

“Blyad,” he hisses, his control fracturing. “Taking me so fucking well.”

I can’t form words. Can only hold on as he uses my body, each thrust pushing me higher, closer to that edge where thought dissolves. The spray beats down, steam thick enough to choke on.

Then his hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit with ruthless precision, and I’m gone. The orgasm rips through me, violent and sudden. I try to cry out, but his mouth muffles the sound, turning it into something desperate and broken.

He follows seconds later, body going rigid, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he empties himself inside me. His grip tightens almost to the point of real pain, and I feel every pulse, every tremor running through him.

For one long moment, we stay locked together. Breathing hard. Hearts pounding. Water still streaming.

Then his phone buzzes.

The shift is immediate. He goes from pliant to alert in a heartbeat, every muscle tensing. He pulls out—too fast, leaving me empty and aching—and lowers me to my feet.

My legs shake. I grab the tile to steady myself while he steps out, grabs a towel, checks his phone.

Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. He types something quickly, efficiently, then looks at me for the first time since he came inside.

“I have to go.”

Not an apology. A statement of fact.

“Of course you do.”

He pauses, hand on the door. For a second, I think he might explain. Might give me some reason to believe this means something beyond physical release between obligations.

But he doesn’t.

“Time to get to work,” he says. Then he’s gone.

I stand there, naked and dripping, water still running. My shoulders throb where they scraped tile. My scalp stings where he pulled my hair. Between my legs, I’m sore and swollen and leaking him.

I sink down onto the edge of the tub.

Outside, his footsteps fade away. Getting dressed. Grabbing whatever he needs. Rushing off to wherever—whoever—demands his attention more than I do.