Chapter 22 When Fear Meets Fire
GENESIS
It was happening.
And I was scared.
Things like this had happened before but in more violent ways.
When he placed me on the bed, flashes of Jimmy surfaced in my mind. I forced them away.
I had fought before. But as time passed, I learned that resistance only led to more pain. It was easier to shut down, to detach, to let it happen.
That was what I planned to do now.
But for some reason, it wasn't working.
My heart pounded in my chest, my breaths shallow. I felt fear, yes but something else lurked beneath it. Something unfamiliar.
Anticipation.
That made no sense. There was nothing to anticipate. Sex was pain. It had always been pain.
Yet as I was pressed against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth warm against my neck, kissing, licking, this strange feeling only grew.
I told myself this was for the baby they needed. Once it was done, I could leave. I wouldn't let my past haunt me forever. I would do what I had to do, no matter how much it cost me.
But why did my stomach keep flipping? Why did my skin tingle? And why...why did I feel this heat pooling between my legs?
What was happening to me?
"Fuck," he groaned, pulling away from my neck, his breath ragged. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto mine. "You're driving me crazy."
I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
Then his hand wrapped around my neck.
My heart skipped a beat.
He was going to kill me.
But he didn't squeeze—just held me there, firm but not suffocating. His grip kept me steady against the wall, his body anchoring me in place.
Then he freed himself.
My eyes widened.
It was… big.
Too big.
It wouldn't fit. It couldn't.
Panic coiled in my stomach, but I forced myself to stay still. Bear it. That was the only way to survive.
Even in the dim light, I could see how thick it was, how long. A bead of liquid glistened at the tip, and he stroked himself slowly before looking up at me.
Did he see the fear in my eyes? Probably.
"Loop your arms around my neck," he murmured. "I'll go slow."
I obeyed, gripping him as tightly as I could.
His teeth found the spot where my shoulder met my collarbone, sinking in just enough to make me shiver. Then I felt the tip of him at my entrance.
But he didn't push in.
No.
Instead, he moved his hips, rubbing himself against my warmth, teasing, testing.
A jolt of sensation shot through me. My breath hitched. My body trembled.
And then—without meaning to—without even realizing—
I let out a sound.
A moan.
His lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You like that."
It wasn't a question.
He did it again. And again. Slow. Deliberate. Letting the friction build.
And I—
I couldn't stop shivering.
My fingers dug into his shoulders. My legs, weak around his waist, clung to him as if my body had a mind of its own.
What was this?
And why did it feel so good?
What caused such a reaction?
He wasn't even inside me. And even if he was, I was only supposed to feel pain.
"Fuck, I haven't even gone in, and you keep clamping around the head of my cock," he groaned, his voice hoarse with pleasure. The sound of it alone made me tighten around him, my stomach flipping again.
The fat tip was now inside me.
"Holy hell, you're so fucking tight," he murmured, his grip firm around my pelvic bone.
The way he said it—was that a good thing? He sounded like he liked it.
Then, without warning, he slammed all the way inside me.
I jolted.
"Ahhh—" My mouth fell open in a silent cry—not just of pain, but of something else. My body clenched around him, muscles tightening and releasing on their own.
"Fuuuuuck," he groaned, his head hitting the wall behind him. His hands gripped my waist so tightly I thought he might crush me.
We stayed like that, unmoving. Him buried inside me. Me clinging to him.
But as the seconds passed, something stirred inside me—an itch, a growing need. I shifted slightly.
"Fuck, don't do that," he growled.
But I couldn't help it.
I did it again.
His head lifted, his right hand sliding from my hip to my throat, holding me there. His other hand still gripped my waist.
His eyes were dark, glazed over.
"I wanted to give you time to adjust, but it seems you don't need it," he muttered.
His voice was strange—more animalistic. He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was locked where we were joined.
Then, he slowly pulled out.
Panic shot through me.
What had I done?
I didn't want him to pull out.
But he didn't. Not completely. He left just the tip inside, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. And then—with one powerful thrust—he drove back in.
My mouth fell open.
Oh my god.
He set a rhythm. Pulling out. Slamming back in. Over and over. The force of it sent me reeling, and if his hand weren't holding my neck, I would have hit my head against the wall.
Thwap.
Thwap.
Thwap.
The sound of skin against skin filled the air, mixing with his ragged breaths. I couldn't speak, couldn't make a sound, but if I could, I knew I'd be screaming. My mouth hung open, silent moans and cries escaping as pleasure wracked my body.
Heat crawled up my face. Embarrassment?
It felt good.
So, so good.
Then he smirked.
"You like it, little wife."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
But he didn't stop. His pace was relentless, like a well-oiled machine, and my brain felt like it was turning to mush.
What was happening to me?
"Look at me," he growled.
My eyes snapped open, and just as I did, he suddenly turned me around, never pulling out.
"That hand stays on the wall," he commanded.
I nodded, bracing myself.
And then—he slammed into me again.
I shivered.