Prisoner of Want

Vic’s hands are a confession he’ll never speak—brutal in their claiming, tender in their aftermath. He pins me to the bed, teeth at my throat, cock splitting me open like he’s trying to rewrite my DNA. “Tell me you hate me,” he snarls, slamming into my cervix. “Tell me this is just a fuck.”

I don’t. I can’t.

He stills, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged. “Why won’t you say it?” His voice cracks—a fracture in his armor—and for a heartbeat, I see it: the fear beneath the fury. He withdraws abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal, his jaw tight. “You’re making this… complicated.”

Later, he fucks me against the window, my palms smearing fog on the glass as he drags his teeth down my spine. “You’ll catch a cold,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket to wrap around my shoulders mid-thrust. The gesture is possessive, not protective—but his hands linger, adjusting the fabric with a roughness that betrays something softer.

At 3 a.m., he’s a paradox.
He wakes me with his mouth between my legs, tongue working me to a trembling edge. “Come for me,” he growls, fingers digging into my thighs. When I shatter, he doesn’t stop—just licks deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

Afterward, he drags me into the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a washcloth. “You’re mine,” he mutters, his voice hollow. “Only mine.” But his hands tremble as they rinse shampoo from my hair, fingers lingering at the nape of my neck.

The cracks deepen.
He shows up at dawn the next morning with coffee, black and bitter—the way he likes it, not my usual order. When I raise an eyebrow, he slams the cup down, his jaw tight. “Don’t fucking read into it.”

That night, he fucks me raw on the kitchen counter, my legs hooked over his elbows. “You’re mine,” he pants, slamming deeper. “Say it.”
“Yours.”
“Louder.”
“Yours!”

He comes with a broken groan, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. For a moment, his arms tighten—not to claim, but to cling.

The breaking point comes in silence.
I wake to find him watching me, his fingers tracing the bruises on my hips. “I should’ve stopped,” he whispers, voice raw. “That night at the clinic… I should’ve let you keep it.”

My breath catches. He’s never acknowledged the pregnancy.

He fists the sheets, his knuckles white. “You’d have left me if we’d kept it. Wouldn’t you?”

I don’t answer.

He’s on me in an instant, pinning my wrists, his cock pressing against my still-sore cunt. “Tell me you’d have stayed,” he demands, but there’s desperation beneath the anger.

When I stay silent, he kisses me—not the usual brutal claiming, but something slower, hungrier. “You’re under my skin,” he murmurs against my lips. “Fucking parasite.”

But he doesn’t pull away.