Chapter 105: Last shred

He began to move. Slowly. Deliberately.

He reached up and pulled his tie from around his neck, the expensive silk sliding down like a slain serpent. It dropped soundlessly to the polished wood floor. Next, his immaculate shirt. He began unbuttoning it from the bottom up, one gold button at a time, each click a hammer blow against the fragile remains of my resolve. He never broke eye contact, his gaze pinned to mine, watching the moment my indignation started to melt into dread and, God help me, anticipation.

“I told you I had a long day,” he said, his voice husky, rolling through the room like a heavy fog. “A very long, very irritating day full of men who couldn’t match my intellect or my ambition. They tired me out, Cam. Now I need to remind myself of a simpler truth. I need to take something soft, something willing, something that belongs entirely to me, and put it back in its place.”

I wanted to throw the nearest marble coaster at his arrogant face. I wanted to scream that I was neither soft nor willing, but the words died in my throat because I knew the lie would be obvious to us both.

Don’t stand there like a slack-jawed idiot, Camilla! Move! Run! Grab your coat and bolt out the door! my inner voice shrieked, but my feet felt encased in concrete.

He reached his chest, and with a final pull, the heavy fabric parted, revealing the sculpted geography of his torso. He was magnificently built, not bulky, but lean and powerful, dusted with dark hair that trailed down beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Oh, good Lord. He’s going to make me watch him undress and he knows I hate myself for how much I want to rip the rest of his clothes off. Why is he so hot? He’s the literal devil, a walking, talking mistake of nature, but his chest is perfect. I mentally slapped myself. Stop staring at his chest! Focus on the fact that he’s enslaving you!

He advanced, taking one slow, measured step after another. I instinctively took a step back with each of his, the retreat humiliating.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, arguing with your husband-to-be,” he continued, rolling the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows, exposing the thick veins in his forearms. The gesture was casual, utterly devastating, and designed to show me exactly how easily he could overpower me.

“Bad girls need to be taught a very direct lesson in submission. And I think the best place to teach you that lesson is right here, in the middle of this room, where you made your little display.”

He reached me and paused, letting his proximity engulf me. He smelled of expensive leather, whiskey, and pure, concentrated testosterone. My breathing was ragged, shallow. I could feel the tell-tale heat starting deep within my core.

My panties are damp. Are you kidding me? Three minutes ago he was ordering me into a shotgun wedding, and now I’m having a physiological response? I hate myself! I hate that I can’t stand on business!

The self-loathing was a sharp, bitter taste in my mouth, but the dampness was undeniable. It was the same traitorous weakness that got me pregnant in the first place

I backed up again, bumping hard against the enormous custom-made silk-upholstered couch. I was trapped.

“I told you I wouldn’t do this, Stephano,” I managed, my voice a strained whisper, lacking all the fire of a few minutes ago.

He leaned in, his mouth close to my ear, his words landing like dirty, delicious promises. “Your mouth says no, Camilla, but your beautiful, tight little body is already saying please. I can smell it. I can feel the tension in you. Stop insulting us both with these lies.”

He placed one hand on the plush velvet of the couch arm, caging me in. “First, I’m going to have you turn around, right here on your knees, and I’m going to take you from behind. I want to see your tits swinging and hear you beg for my cock as I stretch your ass out over this cushion. You like that position; I know you do. It makes you scream my name.”

My head shook quickly, a desperate, futile denial. “No.”

He ignored me, his gaze dropping to my belly.

“Then I’ll flip you over. I’m going to peel off those ridiculous underthings that are already soaking wet, don’t pretend they’re not, I know your body better than you do, and I’m going to shove my cock so deep inside your pussy that you forget you ever heard the word ‘Isabella.’ I will fuck the defiance right out of you, Camilla.”

I pressed my back hard against the silk. He’s a monster. A filthy, disgusting, arrogant monster.

Why, oh why, is my heart doing the samba right now? It's not fair! I'm supposed to hate him! I do hate him! But God, his voice, the things he says…

He leaned down further, pressing his strong body close enough that I could feel the heat and hardness of him through the fabric of his trousers. He was already immensely aroused, and the evidence of his desire only heightened his dominance.

“I’m going to make you come here on this couch until you’re shaking so hard you can’t stand up, then I’ll pick you up, throw you over my shoulder like a sack, and take you upstairs for a second round. Or perhaps,” he pulled back, his eyes glittering with dark mischief, “I’ll just lift your ass and prop you up right here against the back of the couch and fuck you standing up, right in the center of the room, so there’s no doubt in your mind about who you belong to when you walk into that courthouse on Wednesday.”

He reached out and traced the line of my jaw with his finger, finally settling his hand at the back of my neck, pulling me gently, irrevocably forward.

“So, which is it, wifey? Are you going to continue your pathetic revolt, or are you going to stop wasting my time and give me what is mine?”

He was so impossibly close. The reality of him, his scent, his heat, his sheer, unadulterated arrogance, was a devastating sensory assault. I hated myself for the weakness that flooded my limbs, the way my pussy was already throbbing, silently begging for the very thing my mind was fighting. I knew how this went every single time: the minute that immense, amazing cock sank into me, I forgot every logical reason why I hated him and started to moan his name, forgetting he was the devil. That was how I ended up pregnant.

I couldn't stand on business. Not now. I hated that I couldn't. I hated him for knowing it.

My only option left was to fight for the last shred of verbal control.

“Don’t you dare call me ‘wifey’ yet,” I choked out, a final, desperate gasp of defiance. “I haven’t signed the papers. And you can take your cock and shove it…”

He didn't let me finish. His mouth crashed down on mine, silencing the protest, asserting the ownership he already felt, and stealing the last of my air. His mouth was on mine, a brutal, possessive demand that instantly stole my breath and swallowed my last word of protest. I strained my neck, trying to tear my lips away, but his grip at the back of my head was firm, unyielding. He angled my jaw, demanding deeper access, his tongue invading with a hungry desperation that was shocking even for him. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, the sheer frustration of the long day and the argument finally manifesting in this urgent, carnal need.

“Fight me,” he mumbled against my mouth, the words slurred and dark, a challenge and a command all at once. “I want you fighting, Camilla.”

And I was, for a fleeting second. My hands were balled into fists, hammering uselessly against his broad, bare chest. The heat of his skin, the hard muscle beneath my knuckles, was a devastating reminder of my physical disadvantage. I was drowning in the taste of whiskey, expensive cologne, and a raw, masculine hunger that felt ancient and irreversible.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Don't let him do this!

Then, his left hand slid down, past the small of my back, and crushed the curve of my ass. It was the most deliberate, commanding touch he could have used. It was possessive, utterly dismissive of my will, and devastatingly effective.

A small, broken sound escaped my throat. A moan. A whimper of surrender. I felt my knees weaken, the sudden rush of heat making my head spin. My hands stopped hitting his chest and weakly clutched the fabric of his shirt.

Oh, you spineless little idiot! I railed at myself. One touch, one perfect, filthy grab of your ass, and you forget about the forced wedding and the mistress! You are pathetic!

He sensed the shift instantly. He pulled back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, dark with triumph and lust. He used the brief separation to lower his head and begin trailing scorching kisses down my neck, burying his face in the sensitive spot behind my ear.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice thick with satisfied dominance. “Submit. You know you want my cock inside you as much as I need to fuck you right now.”

The sound of his words, so vulgar and so confident, sent a shudder of uncontrollable arousal through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, hating the traitorous clench in my pussy that answered his demand. He let go of my neck and ruthlessly grabbed the hem of my skirt, yanking it up aggressively. The sheer, lace underthings I was wearing, the ones he’d correctly predicted were already damp, were exposed. With one swift, decisive motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and tore them down past my hips, letting them snag uselessly around my thighs.

“I hate feeling this way,” I gasped, the words barely audible, somewhere between a plea and a curse.

“I know,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my temple. “And I love you do.”

He then placed his hands on my shoulders and roughly turned me around, shoving me forward until my knees hit the soft silk of the couch cushion. I automatically braced myself, planting my hands flat on the couch for support. I was bent over, my ass lifted and offered to him, my skirt bunched around my waist, a total, humiliating posture of submission.

The scent of the whiskey and the clean cotton of his trousers were right in my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears of pure self-hatred finally welling up. This was my life now. This was the reward for not keeping my pussy securely between my legs and avoiding his dangerously amazing cock.

He took a step back, and I instinctively tried to look over my shoulder, desperate to catch a glimpse of him, a fleeting image of the weapon that repeatedly destroys my judgment.

“Eyes forward, Camilla,” he commanded, his voice sharp and non-negotiable. “Look at the wall. You look where I tell you to look. You’re not watching the show, you’re the star of the show. Now, arch your back. I want a clear shot.”

I hated that I obeyed, arching my back, pushing my ass higher, creating a better angle for him. The sheer, mind-numbing powerlessness was the ultimate insult.

Well, here we go again. The minute that magnificent, awful cock slides in, I'll forget I'm about to marry a self-centered prick who throws contracts at me. I'll just be 'moaning Camilla,' the idiot who can't resist a good fuck.

He fumbled at his fly, the rasp of his zipper a promise. He was panting now, his control slightly frayed by the rush of lust and dominance.

“I told you I was going to fuck the brattiness right out of you,” he gritted out, his voice right behind me.

I heard the scrape of his trousers shifting, and then felt the hot, slick presence of him pressing against me. I held my breath, every muscle tense.

He placed his large hand firmly on the small of my back, pushing me down just slightly, and with a guttural sound, half curse, half relief, he drove the head of his massive cock into me.

“God, you’re so tight,” he cursed, the pleasure momentarily overriding his control. He paused, letting me stretch around the girth of him.

Then, with an aggressive pull, he reached down and yanked the silk fabric of my dress from my shoulders, tearing it down to my waist. The fabric bunched up, exposing my bra and fully freeing my tits.

“Look at that,” he commanded, his voice dark and deep. “I want to see your tits swinging as I fuck the defiance out of you, right here on the couch where you tried to challenge me. Every moan, every thrust, every bit of pleasure you take is confirmation that you are mine, Camilla. All mine.”

And then he plunged the rest of himself in one deep, agonizing, glorious stroke, effectively ending the argument and beginning the submission. The only sound in the room was the desperate hitch of my breath and the rhythmic, angry slap of flesh against flesh.

The first thrust was a brutal reclaiming of territory. My hands, braced on the back of the couch, slipped. A sharp, choked sound was punched from my lungs.

“That’s it,” Stephano’s voice was a dark rumble behind me, his hands clamping on my hips, yanking me back onto him. “Take it. All of it.”

He didn’t give me a second to adjust, to think. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, the slick, hard slap of his body against mine a lewd counterpoint to the city lights glittering outside the penthouse window. My forehead dropped against the cool leather, a moan tearing from my throat.

No. Don’t. You hate him. Remember Alex. Remember…

“Fuck, Camilla,” he grunted, one hand sliding from my hip around my stomach, pulling me flush against him, the other hand fisting in my hair, tugging my head back. “Look at you. Bent over and taking my cock like you were made for it.”

His words were filthy, a deliberate degradation that should have made me freeze. Instead, a fresh wave of heat pooled low in my belly. My body was a traitor, arching back into his thrusts, meeting his violence with a desperate, answering hunger.

You’re pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He’s fucking you like an animal and you’re getting wetter.

His hand left my hair and closed over my breast, kneading roughly, his thumb scraping over my nipple. A sharp, pleasurable pain made me cry out.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled in my ear, his breath hot. “Your body always tells me the truth. Even when that pretty little mouth of yours is lying.” He drove into me harder, deeper, hitting a spot that made my vision blur. “Tell me whose you are.”

I bit my lip, trying to stifle the moans, but they came anyway, broken little pleas. “Stephano…”

“Louder.”

“Stephano!” It was a sob.

Alex offered you a life. He offered to raise this bastard child and you’re here, screaming another man’s name. What is wrong with you?

He fucked me like that for what felt like an eternity, a relentless, mechanical piston of pleasure and self-loathing. Every nerve ending was on fire, every thought scorched from my brain except the base, primal awareness of the friction, the fullness, the sheer mastery of his movements. I was close, teetering on a precipice I despised myself for wanting to fall from.

Then, abruptly, he stilled, pulling out of me with a wet, slick sound. I whimpered at the sudden, hollow emptiness.

He spun me around, his eyes black with lust and possession. He sat on the couch, his cock standing thick and glistening between his legs. He looked utterly in control, not even breathless.

“Get on top of me,” he commanded, his voice rough. “I want to watch you. I want to see those perfect tits bounce while you ride me. Show me how much you want it.”

My legs were trembling so badly I could barely stand. Shame warred with a desperate, clawing need to finish what he’d started. This was a different kind of humiliation. Active participation.

Oh god, now he wants a show. Fine. Let’s give the bastard a show. Maybe if I do it myself I can just get it over with.

I climbed onto him, my knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of his hips. I positioned myself above him, guiding him inside, a slow, torturous descent that made us both groan. His hands went to my hips, his gaze locked on my body.

“Now,” he said, his voice a low threat. “Move.”

I started to rock, tentatively at first, but my body took over, finding its own rhythm, a deep, rolling grind that made him curse, his head falling back.

“That’s it… fuck, yes. Look at you.” His eyes were heavy-lidded, drinking in the sight. “You’re a goddess like this. A filthy, perfect goddess.”

A goddess? Is that what we’re calling it now? Lady of the Perpetual Bad Decisions. Patron Saint of Fucking Up Her Own Life. My tits are bouncing, alright. I hope he’s getting a good goddamn view for the price of my soul.

I rode him faster, the coil of pleasure tightening again, unbearable. My moans were louder now, unrestrained. I couldn’t have stopped them if I tried.

“I’m… I’m gonna…” I gasped, my movements becoming frantic, erratic.

His grip on my hips tightened, holding me down, forcing me to take every inch as he thrust up into me, his own control finally shattering. “Come for me, Camilla. Now.”

It was an order, and my body obeyed instantly. A white-hot wave of pleasure crashed over me, so intense it was almost painful. I cried out, my body convulsing around him, my nails digging into his shoulders. I felt his own release, a hot rush inside me, and his guttural groan was a sound of pure, triumphant victory.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing. I collapsed against his chest, spent, hollowed out. The high receded, and the reality of what I’d just done, the sounds I’d made, the way I’d moved, crashed down on me. He didn’t hold me. His hands slid from my hips. After a moment, he gave my ass a light, dismissive pat.

“Go clean yourself up,” he said, his voice already returning to its normal, cool detachment.

I pushed myself off him, my body feeling used and sore. I didn’t look at him as I gathered my clothes from the floor. As I walked, unsteady, toward the bathroom, the final, mocking thought echoed in the silence he left behind.

A voice in my head whispered.

And you’re considering leaving this for a man who would probably bring you breakfast in bed? You wouldn’t know what to do with him.