Cracks in the Armor

Vic’s hands are a paradox—cruel enough to bruise, tender enough to make me shatter. He pins me to the mattress, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he growls, “I’ll never get enough of you.” His cock drills into me, brutal and unrelenting, splitting me open like he’s trying to carve his name into my bones. “You feel that?” he snarls, slamming deeper, “That’s where you belong. Right here. Impaled on me.”

But that night was different.

When he flips me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up, I expect the usual frenzy—the mindless, possessive rutting that leaves me raw and shaking. Instead, his palm slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me back against his chest. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, “Taking me like you were made for it.” His other hand grips my throat, not to choke, but to feel my pulse hammering against his palm. “Mine,” he whispers, biting the shell of my ear, “Every fucking breath. Every fucking scream.”

He fucks me slower. Deliberate. Devouring. Each thrust grinds against my cervix, his cock so deep I gasp. “You’re shaking,” he taunts, dragging his lips down my neck. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Good.” His hand slips between my legs, fingers circling my clit with practiced precision. “Come for me. Let me feel you break.”

I shatter, screaming into the pillow, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks me through the aftershocks, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. “Fuck—fuck,” he grits out, slamming into me one last time before stilling, his come flooding me hot and thick. “Christ,” he pants, collapsing on top of me, his heartbeat slamming against my back. For the first time, he doesn’t pull away.

Later, in the shower, he pins me under the scalding spray, sucking bruises into my collarbone as his soap-slick fingers slide between my legs. “You’re still wet,” he mutters, working me open. “Always fucking ready for me.” But when I moan, his free hand fists my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Look at me when I touch you.”

There’s something new in his eyes—a flicker of something desperate, unspoken. He watches me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve, his thumb pressing harder on my clit as if he can erase whatever’s haunting him. “You’re mine,” he repeats, but it sounds less like a threat and more like a plea. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Only mine.”

The realization hits him at 3 a.m.
I wake to his hands roaming my body, his lips trailing fire down my stomach. “Vic—?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, spreading my legs. “I need to taste you.” He devours me like a man starved, his tongue fucking me until I’m sobbing. When I come, he doesn’t stop—just licks deeper, growling, “Again.”

Afterward, he drags me onto his lap, my back pressed to his chest, his arms locking around me like a vise. “You’re not leaving,” he says, voice low. It’s not a command. It’s a confession.

“I’m not yours to keep,” I whisper, testing him.
His grip tightens. “You’re wrong.” His lips brush my ear, the words barely audible: “You’re under my skin. In my fucking veins.”

By dawn, he’s frantic.
He fucks me against the kitchen counter, my legs hooked over his elbows, his thrusts erratic and wild. “Tell me you hate me,” he demands, slamming into my cervix. “Tell me this is just a fuck.”
“Vic—!”
“Say it.”
But I can’t.

He stills, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged. Something cracks. His voice drops to a raw whisper: “I can’t stop. I can’t—fuck.”

For the first time, he looked afraid.