CHAPTER 108: ONE HUNDRED & EIGHT

Valka

The sensation is indescribable. Rough. Intrusive. Unbelievably erotic. The cool wetness, the scraping texture against hypersensitive flesh, the sheer wrongness of it mixed with the absolute rightness of his touch. A ragged cry tears from my throat. My back arches violently off the desk, my hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth wood.

He does it again. A slow, deep drag. In and out, mimicking a carnal rhythm with the brush on a canvas. The bristles drips red as he fucks me with the handle, sending jolts of pure, white-hot pleasure-pain radiating through me. Paint mixes with my own arousal. I can feel the wetness pooling beneath me, hear the slick sound as he works the brush.

Blue, crimson, green. My juices swirl them together into a dark, erotic stain spreading on the ancient mahogany beneath my hips. The scent is overwhelming--paint, sex, primal need.

I scream his name, my nails breaking on the wood. My legs tremble, trying to clamp shut, to bring against the source of the torturous pleasure, but his hand on my hip holds me immobile, open, exposed. I am his plaything. I like being his plaything. I like being at his mercy. I never want to leave this room ever again.

He leans down, finally giving into the sight of my breasts. His breath is hot. His mouth is hot. He sucks the colour off them. He thrusts the brush deeper, harder, but somehow still careful not to bruise me.

I want bruises. I want to remember everytime I walk. I want to dream about it. I want more. I tell him that, but he doesn’t give me what I want, instead pressing his thumb against my clit.

The world fractures into sensation. The in and out plunge, the heat, the very smell of him, the unstoppable tide rising within me, the obscene wet sound of the brush moving in the mess I’ve made on his desk. My vision whites out.

A guttural sob rips from my throat, blinding ecstasy tearing through my core in ripples, spasms and contractions. He fucks me with my cum, feeding the creamy white back to into me with mean thrusts. I writhe, my painted hips grinding with reckless abandon against the unforgiving wood of the desk.

The hand on my hipbone tightens, his eyes darkening as they take in where the handle disappears in and out of me, and violet-gold eyes burn with irrational jealousy and feral possession, even if it he who fucks me with it.

"Who owns this cunt?" he asks.

"You," I hiss, limbs trembling.

"Who am I to you?" he asks again, now glaring at the damned brush, soaked with all of me. He twists it and it grinds against a spot inside me that sends my lips parting around an ’O’.

I try to shape the words, failing after a few tries, but they fly out of me when he presses even harder. "My idiot husband."

A soft chuckle skitters over my skin and I come to the sound of it, vision exploding white, body convulsing sharply as I clamp down on the instrument.

Before the last tremor subsides, before I can even gasp for air, he pulls the brush free with a wet, sucking sound that makes me whimper.

In one swift, brutal motion, he flips me onto my stomach. My breasts scrape the cold wood, the mixed paints smearing beneath me. The hot, heavy press of him against my fucked-open entrance makes my eyes roll back in my head.

"Ask for it," he demands, pushing my spine lower, arching me to perfection. "Beg for it."

"Please," I rasp.

"Not nearly humble enough," he muses, back arching over mine as he presses my cheek into the desk. "But it’ll do."

He drives into me, and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s filled me up, it will always hurt. He stretches me obscenely, stealing both my breath and whatever little part of me that has begun thinking again.

He lifts one of my legs from the surface, forcing me off balance. I gasp, clutching for something that isn’t there, but he catches me easily, strong hands locking beneath my thighs, holding me open, suspended. My toes touch behind his torso, locking. The shift drags him deeper still. My spine arches, the air punches out of my lungs. The angle is impossible, brutal, perfect. I didn’t know one could bend that way.

The desk groans.

Twice this week, he’s replaced it.

He pulls out, agonizingly slowly, and I feel him through the bond, his walls coming down. And I see myself through his eyes. I see what I look like as he buries himself into me. There is paint smeared all over my ass. My thighs. The very shape of his handprints. I--He wishes he could leave those prints in my soul. I think he already has.

He thinks I’m beautiful. He wants me to love him. I tell him I do. And he laughs at me. Tells me it is his cock inside me speaking. I tell him I didn’t know genitals could speak. He laughs at me and fucks me harder.

Out. In. Three thrusts. Four. Out. Three thrusts. Out. Six. Out. Two. He never lets me predict it. And because I can’t, it edges me to a point of anger.

But then, he pushes in and I am no longer angry. He tells me to reach between my legs and touch myself. He tells me how he wants me to do it. Two fingers apart, clitoris in the centre. I come on the first stroke. It feels like a canon exploding.

A high, broken wail tears from my throat as my body locks, shattering around him, my cunt pulsing violently, clenching his cock like a vise, vision dissolving into streaks of crimson and gold. He growls low, a sound of pure satisfaction and his pace quickens through the contractions, jarring my bones against the desk.

It cracks, but holds.

He starts to set me down, but my rump arches for more. He laughs at me, calls me greedy. But I want his seed in me. It isn’t that he doesn’t give it to me all the time. It’s that it feels incomplete if I do not feel that pulsing heat inside.

He always cares more for my pleasure than his. If he thinks I’m hurt, he stops. He’s careful, even when he’s rough. He knows the bruises he leaves, knows I’ll need hours to heal. He wants to give me that. But I don’t want time. I don’t want gentleness.

I want the unraveling. I want the moment he breaks.

My walls clench around him, tight enough that I see stars, and he stutters my name, just once, before that dark growl rumbles in his chest. His control shatters. His hand slips from my thigh to my hip, holding me still as his release floods into me, hot, thick, endless. It’s not just the heat or the possession that makes it feel rewarding; it’s the tremor that runs through him. The shudder. The surrender.

The knowing that even a god can lose himself inside me.

Time flows. I do not keep tabs on it. It might have been hours later, when he’s curled me up on the couch by the tall windows, bundled in blankets that smell faintly of him, when a knock echoes on the door.

Drowsy, I don’t hear him move until the door opens. But I do hear the guard. Nath, I think. He says we’ve gotten the first message back from the docks.

A part of me knows it is important. But a larger part of me stirs in distress. Because I feel it. This cocoon of warmth we’ve built in the last couple of weeks is about to shatter.