CHAPTER 409: CHAPTER 409; HONEYMOON PHASE 2 H (R+18)

"I can’t... I’m going to...." she sobbed, her entire body tensing like a drawn bow.

"Then do it," he commanded, his voice harsh. "Come for me. Now."

Her climax hit like a physical blow, her body convulsing violently beneath him, inner muscles clamping down so hard he groaned. Her scream echoed off the walls, raw and primal, as wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain crashed through her.

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He drove through her orgasm, prolonging it until she was sobbing with the intensity, her body writhing beneath his, trying simultaneously to escape and to get closer.

Before the last waves of her climax could fully subside, before she could catch her breath or orient herself, he pulled out abruptly. A whimper of loss tore from her throat, her body protesting the sudden emptiness.

He flipped her onto her hands and knees with a firm, unyielding hand on her hip, positioning her exactly how he wanted her. His strength was evident in the ease with which he moved her body, arranging her like a doll.

"Stay," he commanded when she tried to collapse forward onto the pillows. His hand pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her chest down, ass up, completely exposed and vulnerable.

This position was deeper, more animalistic, more primitive. When he entered her from behind, the angle was almost unbearably intense. She could feel every inch of him, the stretch and burn mixing with pleasure in a way that made her brain short-circuit.

He gripped her hip bone with one hand like a vice, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, marking her. His other hand tangled in her hair, not pulling, just holding, controlling, a reminder of who was in charge.

The slap of skin against skin was obscenely loud in the quiet room, punctuated by her increasingly desperate cries and his harsh breathing. She was completely exposed to him in this position, her most intimate parts on display, unable to hide any reaction or response.

Each thrust drove her forward slightly, only for him to yank her back by the hips, impaling her again. The rhythm was brutal, relentless, inhuman. She didn’t know how he had the stamina, the strength, the control to maintain this pace.

"Please... wait... I can’t take any more..." she cried, her voice muffled by the comforter she’d buried her face in, trying to muffle her screams. "It’s too much... too deep... you’re too deep..."

"You can," he grunted, his rhythm never faltering, never showing mercy, pushing her relentlessly toward another impossible peak. "And you will. Your body knows what to do. Let go."

His hand came down on her ass, not hard enough to truly hurt, but sharp enough to send electricity racing through her nerves. Once. Twice. Three times. Each slap was punctuated by a particularly deep thrust.

"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his voice rough and possessive.

"You!" she screamed, beyond shame, beyond pride, reduced to pure sensation and need.

"Say my name," he commanded.

"Huo Ting Cheng!" she sobbed. "I belong to you! Only you!"

He reached around her hip, fingers finding her oversensitized clit again. The touch was almost painful in its intensity, but within seconds, impossibly, she felt herself climbing again.

"No, no, I can’t..," she protested weakly.

"Yes, you can," he insisted, his fingers working expertly despite the frantic pace of his hips. "One more. Give me one more."

Her second orgasm was somehow even more intense than the first, tearing through her like a wildfire. She felt herself shatter again, her arms giving out completely, her body convulsing around him as she collapsed forward onto the bed, supported only by his hands on her hips holding her in position.

He groaned as she clenched around him, but still, impossibly, he didn’t finish. His control was inhuman.

Just as the aftershocks were still rippling through her body, as she lay there gasping and sobbing, he withdrew again. She couldn’t even protest this time, couldn’t form words, her mind completely scattered.

She collapsed fully onto her stomach, boneless and trembling, the world a blur of sensation and exhausted tears. She thought maybe, finally, he would let her rest.

She was wrong.

He didn’t give her even a moment to recover. He lay his full weight on top of her, pressing her deep into the mattress, his chest against her back, his legs outside hers. He nudged her legs apart with his knees, but only slightly, just enough.

When he entered her this time, the angle was different, tighter, more restrictive, more invasive. This position felt the most intimate of all, the most vulnerable. She was pinned beneath him, utterly helpless, her face turned to the side on the pillow, tears streaming freely down her cheeks now.

"Ting Cheng... please... I can’t..." she whimpered, her voice barely audible, hoarse from screaming.

"Shhh," he soothed, but his tone was dark with satisfaction rather than comforting. "Just take it. Take me. You’re doing so well."

He began to move again, and this angle was somehow even more intense than the others. The restriction, his weight of him, the inability to move or adjust, it was overwhelming. She was completely at his mercy, pinned like a butterfly to a board.

His pace was frantic now, his own control finally beginning to fray. She could hear it in his breathing, feel it in the slight tremor in his muscles, the way his movements became less coordinated, more desperate.

He drilled into her with abandon, his breath hot and ragged directly in her ear. One of his hands found hers, threading their fingers together and pressing their joined hands into the mattress beside her head, a gesture that was somehow both tender and dominating.

"Mine," he chanted, a hoarse, guttural mantra with every thrust, every claiming stroke. "Mine. Mine. All mine. Say it."

"Yours," she managed to gasp out, her voice broken. "All yours. Always."

Tang Fei was beyond coherent thought.